


First Sights

by delabaissé (missyay)



Series: For the Better [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Asexual Character, Crossdressing out of practicality, Drabbles, F/M, First Meetings, Genderqueer Character, M/M, Other, Polyamory, Trans Male Character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-11
Updated: 2014-01-18
Packaged: 2017-12-13 23:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 23,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/830169
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missyay/pseuds/delabaiss%C3%A9
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Drabbles from my Les Misérables "For the Better" 'verse.<br/>Everyone's beginnings of the story, and a few middle parts. Vaguely chronological.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Jehan & Enjolras & Combeferre

**Author's Note:**

> Because I only ever write in drabbles, and adding the connections is the hard part: This is me being lazy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Takes place after the first chapter!

The first time Jehan wears a skirt to school, it’s both wonderful and not. The soft material whispering around his knees is wonderful, and the snorts and giggles when he arrives and sits down are not. The wide smile he gets from the girl sitting next to him is wonderful, and that she won’t stand next to him during recess is not.

It comes down to just another day at school: his classmates know him as the eccentric; they still talk to him because he’s just that nice, and don’t pay much attention to him otherwise. Jehan finds himself an empty table in the canteen (which will probably stay that way now that he has claimed it; nobody seeks his company if he doesn’t go to them himself) and takes out his book. It’s German poetry – he doesn’t understand a lot of it yet, but just knowing how he’d have to pronounce it, if he were to read it out loud, softens his thoughts und lulls him into peacefulness.

The way the sharp edged words fit together, form something round and soft to the touch with just the occasional hiss or cluck sticking out is patently wonderful, and there can’t be anything clichéd about something he doesn’t understand.

His table doesn’t stay empty.

He doesn’t even realise it at first, he’s too busy forming the shapes of words in his mind, so that when he looks up and sees an angel, he almost drops his book in surprise.

“Hey,” the angel says, fixating on him with light blue eyes. His full lips smile, but his eyes stay solemn. If he were a poem, Jehan would eat him up. He’d get a sharpie and write those words wherever he went. He’d get them tattooed.

“Hey,” says now the boy next to the blond that Jehan didn’t even notice until now. He’s tall and dark-haired and wears glasses, the kind of person you’d pass without a second glance. “I’m Combeferre, and this is Enjolras.”

“Uh,” Jehan says. “I’m Prouvaire, in that case.” He tries a smile, but ends up staring at Enjolras again. He can feel a blush creep up his cheeks and hopes they won’t interpret it the wrong way. Or possibly the right way.

“Oh, you can tell us your first name,” Combeferre says, “we’re only going by our last names because, uh, long story short, our parents hate us.”

He’s trying to figure out pronouns, which is cute, really, and a first for Jehan. He briefly considers giving them a “Jeanne” to chew on, but that would only end up confusing them in the long run, and Jehan really, really wants for there to be a long run.

So he says, “Jehan, then,” and this time, he gets the smile right, just as brilliant as these two deserve.

When Combeferre smiles back, it’s with so much kindness that Jehan wants to cry.

“You speak German?” Enjolras asks him, with a respectful nod towards his book.

“A little,” Jehan confesses. “I don’t spend as much time learning it as I want to, it can be such a wonderful language, but it’s pretty frustrating too.”

“To think that I was proud of myself because I’m doing okay in English,” Enjolras mutters, and gets himself an elbow to the ribs.

“He’s more than ‘okay’,” Combeferre informs him, “he aces everything he has an interest in.”

“Why English?” Jehan asks.

“Practicality,” Enjolras answers, “there’s quite the LGBT community out there on the internet, but most of it’s in English, so I decided to get better at it.”

Jehan looks at him, baffled. “You’re reading up on LGBT stuff in your free time,” he says. “At what, fifteen?”

Enjolras’ eyebrows shoot up, but before he can say anything, Combeferre stops him short: “He even gave a lecture about it. Stunned the whole class into silence.”

“Mme Hiver was making a hash of it,” Enjolras says in his own defence.

“Oh,” Jehan remembers the debate, “that one! She did that with you, too? I think she’ll stop after this year’s catastrophe, though. Everyone’s eyes were on me for the whole thing, even though I hadn’t said a word. I could have used your lecture then!”

Combeferre grimaces in sympathy.

 “Are you going to the demonstration on Friday?” Enjolras asks. Of course Jehan knows what he’s talking about, he’s been getting this question with varying degrees of mockery for the whole past week: It’s only a little thing, but because Paris is big, and the sheer amount of people in it makes for a demonstration-suiting number of trans people, they could make it into a demonstration. That doesn’t mean they won’t get bombarded with stones and bottles, though.

“I don’t have anyone to go with,” he confesses.

“We’re going,” Enjolras says, “you could come with us, if you want to.” And then, not even waiting for an answer, he goes on, “let’s meet up at the Café Musain first for coffee, do you know the Musain? It’s _perfect-“_

The smile reaches his eyes, now, and he looks so excited and optimistic and _young_ that Jehan can’t stop himself from saying: “You look like a poem.”

Enjolras’ voice stutters to a halt, and he spends a few seconds looking completely lost, before turning to Combeferre for help.

“He means thanks,” Combeferre says drily. There’s something carefully locked up in his eyes that Jehan can’t figure out.

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to – I wasn’t _flirting,_ it’s just that you’re incredibly beautiful with a smile like that, and I’m sure you know that – I’ll just stop now,” Jehan says, hiding his blush behind his hands.

“Oh,” Enjolras says, sounding relieved, “thanks? I don’t really get the point of poetry and, uh, romance, but…”

Combeferre grimaces again, but this time it’s just for Jehan, a secretly sent out ‘he’s awful, right?’ that makes Jehan an accomplice rather than an outcast. He hides his smile as well while he’s at it.


	2. Bahorel

Jehan uses the ladies’ toilet most of the time, which he wouldn’t mind if it weren’t out of practicality. He loathes practicality.

He really doesn’t think a lot about his gender; doesn’t _care_ , most of the time, if he’s passing for a girl or a boy today, but he uses male pronouns for himself, so it should follow that he ought to use the men’s toilet as well.

They don’t like him there, though. (They don’t like him anywhere, but least of all in their bathrooms, and changing rooms, and near their children.)

He does a lot of things for simplicity. Says _yes_ when asked if he’s a boy, says _yes_ when asked if he’s a girl, if he likes girls, if he likes boys. Picks one when he’s asked a question of either/or. Alters the pronunciation of his name slightly depending on what pronoun someone uses for him. Explains only when confusion arises, with as much shrugging as he deems useful, to emphasize how utterly impossible it is to insult him (unless you’re trying). He really doesn’t ask for a lot.

But this, this bothers him. It’s a fucking nuisance. He tries (and sometimes fails) not to spare it too much thought; after all, he’s met some absolutely precious people in the ladies’.

(One thing about being genderqueer is that people reveal themselves to you more readily. They show their love or hate for you in passing by, and sometimes, he likes that. Sometimes, that is: when a stranger congratulates him on his blouse, or spontaneously picks up a flower for him, or flashes him a brilliant smile in passing, as if to say: You’re probably fighting a war, and I just wanted to say I’m one hundred percent with you on that one.)

Sometimes, when he’s failed not to spare it too much thought, and is feeling particularly rebellious, he decides to go in anyway.

Today is such a day.

Jehan doesn’t even look (feel) that girlish today, meaning he’s not wearing floral trousers or blouses or makeup or anything, and he might actually get weird looks if he chose the ladies’ today. So he squares his shoulders and opts for the gents’ instead.

Someone’s standing at the urinal, turning his head when Jehan enters. “Oy,” he says, “wrong bathroom.”

“I think not.” Jehan lets the low rumble of his voice speak for itself and goes to one of the cabins.

“Faggot,” he hears through the closing door, the word practically spat out.

It’s absolutely pointless, it's unimaginative, it's just a word (and not even a fitting one), he’s been through this a thousand times, and still: it makes him sad.

When he comes out of the cabin, another man stands at the sink, washing his hands. He throws him a look, and Jehan prepares for another hateful accusation, because that’s what the man looks like: trouble. He wears black boots and a leather jacket, and his hair is very short.

“Hey,” he says shortly. Jehan looks up at him, because fuck it, he is not going to be bullied into averting his eyes. “Think nothing of it, alright?” The man continues, “For what it’s worth, I think you’re rad. And I’m straight as a rule, so.”

Jehan contemplates saying _do you think it’s more of a compliment because you’re straight or did you just want to casually remind me that you’re not to be flirted with?_ but he doesn’t. He doesn’t, as a rule, reprove decent people; it just makes them regret their kindness.

So instead he smiles his big happy smile and says “Thank you. You aren’t bad either.”

“I’ve seen you around, with this group of people. You’re always here. It sounded like you were planning something earlier?” The man sounds actually interested, as if he’d genuinely like to join them. Come to think of it, Jehan has seen him around the Musain a few times, but he’d never thought he could be interested.

“Uh,” Jehan says, “The Pride Parade? Probably not your cup of tea.”

“Nah, it sounded like it was going to be one hell of a party, I was just curious.”

“Well, you could come by sometime. We actually do some serious stuff as well, demonstrations and such. Or just parties.  Just go by and ask for Jehan if they’re in the backroom, they’re going to let you in.”

“Thanks, man,” says the brute. “I’m Bahorel, by the way.”

They shake hands, and Bahorel tries very hard not to squash Jehan’s in the process.


	3. Combeferre & Enjolras, II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras is shit at dealing with people who are in love with him, part I.

Falling for Enjolras is a natural force, there is no escaping it. (Combeferre doesn’t want to escape, because this is the first time he’s felt like he’s important, like he’s making a difference. To Enjolras if not to anyone else.)

-

Enjolras is right there with him, he seems to know what Combeferre’s thinking at any given moment, and yet he’s strangely distant. Combeferre thought at first that it’s to do with how he’s in love with him and Enjolras wants to spare him, but then he’d noticed that this is the way Enjolras has always treated everyone, even his parents. There is no getting near him. Or there is, but nobody ever tries because of the way he holds himself and never initiates anything that goes in the direction of touching.

And that should have been fine, it should have made things easier, but what it does instead is amplify every small touch until it burns under his skin and Combeferre has to spend hours alone in his room until his heartbeat slows down. So, naturally, when Enjolras catches him rolling his shoulders to get rid of that backache he’s had for the past few days, and offers him a massage… Combeferre says yes.

(He’s only human, after all.)

And it’s a spectacle, the way Combeferre reacts to the long, thin fingers digging into his tense muscles. He’s pretty sure that it’s meant to be relaxing, but it ends up filling him with adrenaline like nothing before.

“You’ve got goosebumps,” Enjolras comments, oblivious.

“Your hands are cold,” Combeferre says. He knows he should tell him the truth, but then he’d stop.

And then Enjolras starts humming, just one low tone, and Combeferre is sure that this is the closest he’s going to get, and he decides that he’s okay with it. Between this and the way Enjolras looks at him when they’re arguing, like Combeferre has saved his life and shown him the way and given his purpose a home, he’s more than okay. Because Enjolras never stops saying how glad he is that Combeferre is there at his side, and Combeferre starts feeling like the most important person in his life, and it may even be true, although they don’t talk about it.

-

“Move in with me,” Enjolras offers, one day, when Combeferre is looking for one-room flats in the newspaper because their baccaleauréat is coming to an end, and there is _no way_ he’s staying with his parents.

Combeferre considers it, because Combeferre may be smart, but he’s not very good at denying himself much of anything when it comes to Enjolras. So he thinks about it: The way they’d just fit together, how it would feel like a privilege, getting to see Enjolras less than composed, in pajamas, in a towel. The way it would make him sadder and happier at the same time, and how it would do him no service in the long run. But that’s not what makes him decline in the end. What makes him say no is that it wouldn’t be fair to Enjolras: Enjolras doesn’t know what he’s getting into, he’s absolutely oblivious to any signs Combeferre may have given off.

And so Combeferre just laughs a little and shakes his head and turns the page of the newspaper. Enjolras looks almost hurt.

“Why not?” he asks. “I meant it, you know. It isn’t such a bad idea.”

“Oh, believe me, it is,” Combeferre answers, and hopes that Enjolras will just leave it be.

“Why? We never fight, we’re perfectly capable of talking about anything that might annoy us… or do you prefer living alone?” He knows he doesn’t. There’s no getting out of this, so Combeferre takes a deep breath and braces himself and gets it all out in one sentence.

“No, it’s just that I’ve been in love with you for a while, and I’ve been trying to get over it, and moving in with you would be counter-productive.” He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips by the time he’s finished, but it comes out sounding calm and collected as always.

Enjolras, in some strange reflex, edges closer. “Combeferre…” he says, reaching out one hand to him, and because Combeferre hasn’t gotten any better at this in the meantime, he takes it. Enjolras curls his fingers around Combeferre’s in a rare gesture of affection. “Why didn’t you say anything?” he asks.

“I thought you’d notice eventually, and spare me the trouble,” Combeferre says, with a hint of a smile. In hindsight, it probably wasn’t the best course of action, because nobody ever notices Combeferre, and Enjolras is oblivious to everything to do with romanticism until it jumps into his face.

Combeferre tugs at his hand experimentally. Enjolras doesn’t let go.


	4. Courfeyrac

Jehan sits at their usual table in a corner of the Musain, waiting for Enjolras and Combeferre to show up, when he is approached by the Smiling Waiter.

The Smiling Waiter is not so much a person as he is a phenomenon (hence the capital letters). He’s been waiting on them ever since Jehan started coming here. He’s extremely handsome (even _Enjolras_ has noticed, which is saying something), with dark, curly hair and clear grey eyes. At the same time, he’s friendly to the point where _Combeferre_ starts pondering if perhaps he’s just secretly making fun of them, and his smile never ceases to virtually _radiate_ warmth.

Said Smiling Waiter is now leaning against a chair on the opposite side of the table, his hands on the backrest.

“Do you want a cup of coffee, on the house?” he asks, when Jehan looks up from his book. “All I’m asking for in return is your name.”

Jehan has had a lot of time to figure out the difference between flirtatious friendliness and supportive friendliness, but he’s pretty sure he could have handled that one without any training; it’s so far down the flirting road that he doesn’t even bother acting confused about it.

He does, however, consider for a split second to be a girl for this guy. Get his phone number, have a nice few dates with him and then just end it. It’s part his own loneliness, part the guy’s loveliness. He decides not to risk it, though (he’s the waiter, after all, and Jehan wouldn’t want to feel less than comfortable in the Musain; it has become a second home for him.)

Jehan is capable of softening his voice to the point where it’s impossible to tell if he’s a boy or a girl. But he can just as well speak up, and when he does, his voice unfailingly declares him to be distinctly non-female. So that’s what he does, speak up: “Jehan.”

The waiter blinks. “Oh,” he says, “Oh! I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

_chat up a boy?_

“-misgender you, I’m really sorry.” The waiter looks slightly sheepish, but there’s no disgust in his expression, so Jehan risks a smile.

“There is no misgendering me,” he says softly.

The waiter doesn’t look entirely reassured (or maybe he doesn’t understand, which Jehan doesn’t mind, it’s not like he fully grasps the whole concept himself half the time).

“Oh well. But still. You _are_ extraordinarily beautiful,” the waiter insists, his smile slowly reappearing.

“Do you still want to buy me a coffee?” Jehan asks, because why the hell not? It’s worth a try.

“Sure,” the guy’s hands clench around the backrest nervously, “not as a date thing, though. I’m straight.”

 _Queer enough to chat me up_ , Jehan thinks darkly, before he gets himself together and smiles back. (It’s not the waiter’s fault. (It’s not Jehan’s fault either, but nobody ever seems to care about that.))

His expression must have slipped, though, because the waiter raises his hands as if to apologise. “I know, you probably get that a lot. I’m actually straight, though. As in, I don’t enjoy sex with men. I’m sure, because I’ve tried it.”

“You’ve tried it?” Jehan asks, near laughing.

“Yeah, I was sort of disgusting at age seventeen; I asked a girl how she could be sure about being a lesbian when she’d never had sex with a man. She asked back how I could know I’m not gay when I’ve never had sex with a man. Made me think.” The waiter shrugs, and extends a hand. “Courfeyrac, by the way, since we’re already talking about our most horrific sex escapades. You like your coffee with cream and sugar, don’t you?”

And that’s how Jehan ends up introducing Courfeyrac to their little group over a cup of his favourite coffee with a chocolate cat drawn on the milk froth.


	5. Eponine

Eponine can’t quite pin down that fragile thing that’s sitting at the bar clutching a beer – she (he?) is wearing a long skirt and fitted blouse that shows off her flat chest, wears her hair in a very short plait that’s starting to dissolve into fine blond strands, and smiles brightly when she catches Eponine watching her. Eponine doesn’t smile back, because smiling tends to blow her cover, but she does high-five her on her way to the dance floor, causing her vibrant smile to broaden further still. 

She’s in high spirits today: it’s been the day of her last baccalauréat exam, and she thinks she’s done okay (given the whole shit that’s been going on at home lately), and now she’s free – or at least that’s what it feels like – to do whatever the hell she wants. She’s got a whole list of things she wants to do, but getting to hear ambiguous remarks is not one of them. And so she’s bound her breasts and worked her magic with her makeup and styled her hair accordingly, and now she’s a guy for the night, which means she’s got nothing to fear. It feels rather brilliant, to be honest.

When the girl she’s been dancing with starts getting a bit too close for comfort, Eponine goes out for a smoke. Pushing open the door, she revels in the rush of fresh air and silence after too much too-loud music and sweat and heat.

After she’s lit her cigarette, she spots the girl from the bar again, standing next to a – giant, apparently, with short-cropped hair and a cigarette dancing in the corner of his mouth. She can hear his part of the conversation, his voice a low, carrying rumble, but hers is too soft to be heard.

Today is one of those days she trusts her instincts, and her instinct has her edge closer to the couple, and so she goes over without a second thought. Both of them are looking over at her by the time she arrives, his smile a deliberate show of teeth, hers a delighted glint.

“Hey,” Eponine says. Her voice is a husky, smoke-ruined mess that never betrays her. She rather likes it. “I’ve seen you at the bar and thought I’d come over and tell you that you’ve got a lovely smile.”

The man answers before the girl can open her mouth. “Jehan sure does”, he says, throwing her a warning look.

Eponine smiles, giving up on her performance for today, and offers a hand to, apparently, Jehan. “I’m Eponine,” she says.

 


	6. Marius

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Marius is the character I had the most fun trying to translate into my modern 'verse. So I didn’t focus on my writing with this one, I just wanted to tell the story (and whenever I do that, my English plummets into the abyss, so prepare for mistakes and stuff.) Still looking for a beta reader, by the way! So, if anyone wants to. :)

_Hey, I googled my way here, so I don’t really know how long ago you put up your notice. It’s just, I need a place to stay, and yours seemed perfect, and you seem nice, too, so, if you’re still looking for someone, I’d love to come around and have a look at it!_

_Marius_

 

It’s the first day after Courfeyrac set up the flatmatefinder, and he didn’t really expect anything to happen, but apparently, this Marius fellow is really _really_ desperate for a flat. And he seems decent, if a bit awkward, so Courfeyrac invites him over.

It’s not like he _needs_ the money, he just happens to have a spare room, and he hates being alone, so the solution is obvious, really.

Marius comes around, all cheekbones and freckles and stumbling over his words in gratitude, and Courfeyrac thinks he’s like a puppy, so he decides to keep him.

 

It takes a bit to figure him out, though, because Marius is straight to the point where he doesn’t even _notice_ attractiveness in men (which is frankly insulting) and he has never heard of Les Amis before, and yet he claims to have found them via google. There is no way of finding his flatmatefinder via google without at least typing _LGBT_. Courfeyrac knows, because he’s _tried._

He doesn’t outright _ask,_ though, and so he only gets bits and pieces for a while: Marius has been living with his grandfather before, and now he doesn’t, and he doesn’t seem to be on speaking terms with him or want his money, because he sometimes gets calls that he pointedly ignores and he always lives from hand to mouth, even though he always pays the rent, never even one day late or one cent less.

But it’s all a big puzzle to Courfeyrac, really, until one day he comes home from the Musain and finds Marius slumped down on the sofa, quietly crying his eyes out.

It takes him a moment to notice the tears on his cheeks, but then Courfeyrac rushes to his side, placing one hand on his shoulder. “Hey,” he says softly, “hey hey hey what happened?”

Marius shakes his head. “It’s nothing, really,” he says. “I get like that.”

Courfeyrac sits down, because this looks like it could take a while. “It doesn’t look like nothing,” he says carefully. “Don’t you want to talk about it?”

Marius takes a shaky breath and pulls his hand free. “It’s just, it’s been one year since my father died.”

There’s nothing to say. Courfeyrac pulls Marius into a half-hug, and Marius burrows his face in his sweater for a moment.

“I never even got to know him,” he mumbles into the fabric, “and yet here I am.”

“A loss of a potential is still a loss,” Courfeyrac says, as Marius pulls away. “Why didn’t you know him?”

“When my mum died, my father would have gotten custody, but he was in a relationship with a man at the time. My grandfather used that to get me.”

“How the hell – “ Courfeyrac is already halfway to furious before he remembers that he’s got a crying Marius to console. “Jesus, that sounds like one of our cases.”

“Yeah, he managed to convince the judge that my dad would be a threat to me, because we all know that paedophilia is just homosexuality taken one step further,” Marius says, and he’s not air quoting, but it still sounds like a recital, hollow and sad. “The worst thing is that he thinks he’s done me good. Saved me. He really believes the whole crap. He told me, all these years, that my father didn’t want me, and I never asked about him because I was _embarrassed_ to know that he existed, a queer for a father! I never told anyone.”

Marius shakes his head. Courfeyrac doesn’t know what to say. He sneaks a hand into Marius’ hair for a moment, long enough for a soothing pat, but not long enough to get Marius from sad to annoyed.

“And then on his funeral, I was feeling kind of out of place because I was the only one who wasn’t grieving, but my grandfather had made me go, and so there I was, and then my father’s ex boyfriend came up to me and told me the whole story. Everything, from the court battle over custody to the cards he’d send and phonecalls unanswered… And I realised what I’d done, this whole time – I never meant to cause him any harm!” The last sentence sounds almost defensive.

“You couldn’t know,” Courfeyrac says.

“Maybe I couldn’t, but I never even asked! All this time, he’s been trying to get through to me, and I never moved a finger to get to know him at least a little bit?”

“You were feeling guilty. And probably wanted to get to know what little of your father you could still get, so you did your research,” Courfeyrac says, piecing everything together. “And you found us. Les Amis. Offering you a flat. Which you took, as a sign of defiance to your grandfather?”

Marius shakes his head. “More of a peace offering to my father. I don’t know. I want to make things right but how could I possibly?”

“I don’t know. But if you want to, you could come to our meetings,” Courfeyrac offers. “We try to draw attention to trials like the one about your custody, and make them realise that they can’t get away with something like that in the present day.”

Marius looks down to where Courfeyrac is still sitting on the floor with a watery smile. “Um, yeah? If you want me.”

“The only way I could want you more is if I were gay, and I promise that if I were, I would. But as it is, you’ll just have to come along. Enjolras is going to _love_ you.”

Enjolras is going to _viciously_ disagree with him, and Courfeyrac is not going to miss out on that.

(He is a bad person.)

(But at least he made Marius stop crying, so that’s something.)


	7. Musichetta & Joly

On the last floor of the four-story building, a couple greets him, leaning in the doorway.

The guy offers his hand, and Bossuet takes it. “Hey,” he says. “Jules Joly. But everyone calls me Joly. Adding what I lack, I suppose.” Bossuet grins, taking in Joly’s laugh lines and expressive eyebrows. There’s no beauty in it, that’s true, but he seems genuine enough.

“Léon Lesgle,” he says back to them, “or Bossuet.” Joly’s hands are bright red and dry.

“Hospital or laboratory?” Bossuet asks.

“Hospital,” Joly says, with a laugh. “I’m doing an internship. Well done, Sherlock.”

Bossuet turns to the girl, who _is_ most definitely pretty, with long auburn hair that curls just the slightest bit, and dark brown eyes that seem to know his every secret. “Musichetta,” she introduces herself, “Come in!”

Bossuet follows them into a tiny vestibule, where they all take off their shoes. Apparently that’s a rule.

“You’re the first one to respond to this flatmatefinder thing Joly came across,” Musichetta says, “Is it not going very well or are we just not desirable flatmates?” She opens the door to an empty room, which seems smaller than it is because of the roof slope. _I’m going to hit my head,_ Bossuet thinks to himself.

“Nice!” he comments, taking a few steps into the room. He notes the carpeted floor, the walls that look freshly painted, and the skylight that offers a view over the garden. “It’s still in the early stages,” he answers Musichetta’s question. “My friend set it up so when I mentioned I was looking for a flat, he made me use it.”

“So, who are you going to bring here, if I may ask?” Musichetta inquires, like everything is already settled, following him into the room. Joly leans against the wall next to the door.

Bossuet shrugs. “I don’t really date, at the moment. In case that changes, though, probably girls.” To his surprise, Joly’s face falls at that, and he adds, to see if he can change the disappointed look again, “it’s a slight _probably_ , but I’m going to go with it.” Joly smiles. It’s somewhere between flirtatious and friendly, and Bossuet can’t quite pin it down.

So he asks, “So, you two are a couple?” They nod. Musichetta slings an arm around Joly’s waist and says, “don’t worry, though, we’re trying to keep the couply moments to a minimum in public,” pressing an affectionate kiss to Joly’s temple.

Bossuet feels a strange pull towards them; he’s surprised at its intensity – they both seem to be decent people, kind and likeable, but he hasn’t felt attracted to either of them until now.

It’s a pull strong enough to make him sign the papers Musichetta hands him at the end of their meeting without further questions, and thus agrees to become their new flatmate. (He has stopped worrying about making spontaneous decisions when he discovered that it sucks _so much more_ when decisions he actually made the effort of carefully going through beforehand go wrong.)

*

His first morning in the new flat, Bossuet is woken up by falling out of bed with a muffled _thump_.

“The mighty eagle has fallen,” he calls out, expecting to get maybe a faint chuckle through the thin walls in return.

What he _doesn’t_ expect is for Joly to barge in and rush to his side in an instant. “Where does it hurt?” he asks, framing Bossuet’s face with his hands, “did you hit your head?”

“’s all right,” Bossuet says, nonplussed. “I just fell out of bed, is all. That kind of thing happens to me all the time.”

“Oh please don’t say you’re prone to injuries,” Musichetta sighs, poking her head in, with a dressing gown slung over her shoulders. “He’s going to freak out every time.”

Joly is still holding Bossuet’s head, fingertips barely touching his face. He leans forward to study Bossuet’s eyes. “You might have a concussion,” he says, “at least you didn’t land at an odd angle. You could’ve easily broken your neck – can you move it?”

“My luck isn’t THAT bad,” Bossuet says, still not entirely sure what’s going on, but giving his best to soothe the concern that is evident in Joly’s expression.

He moves his neck to demonstrate, and is rewarded with a relieved little smile. Joly lets go of his head, and Bossuet climbs back into bed. “Sorry for waking you,” he says, but Joly doesn’t leave.

“Do you feel dizzy? Nauseous? If it’s a concussion-“

“I’m fine,” Bossuet reassures him. “Really. It doesn’t even really hurt, there’s just-“ he moves to prod at his head and is stopped by Joly crying out “don’t touch it!” – “A sore spot. I’m sorry for troubling you, really.”

Musichetta watches them from the doorway, idly curling a strand of hair around her fingers. “Joly, he’s alright,” she says, and Joly nods obediently. An apologetic smile spreads across his face.

“I’m sorry,” he says, “I get like that.” He stands up, knees cracking, and casts them a worried glance before turning back to Bossuet. “But in case you _do_ feel dizzy, or nauseous, or anything out of the ordinary, just call, alright?”

“Right,” Bossuet promises. They leave, and Bossuet can’t seem to stop smiling.


	8. Eponine, II

Eponine doesn’t really join Les Amis. When Jehan offers to introduce her to the rest, she laughs and says, “Hell no, I’ve got enough stuff going on already without having to worry about a revolution,” which is about the saddest thing Jehan has heard her say since “Nah, I just dress up as a guy so I don’t get the brunt of wolf-whistles and catcalls like I usually do when I’m having a bit of fun.” She has every reason to join them: They could use her witty remarks, her first-hand-knowledge about the current misogyny situation in town for their gender equality debates. (People tend to listen to victims closer than they do to preachers, and Les Amis are well aware of the fact that a man is never the best choice in a speaker for women’s rights.)

But Jehan gets why she doesn’t want to – her life is always just a touch away from tipping over, there are crises to manage, jobs to be looked for, family members to be safely lodged, and she can’t possibly know if Les Amis would change all that for the better or the worse.

But she does come by occasionally, hanging around at the bar sipping a Chai Latte and watching them from a safe distance until their meeting is over and Jehan joins her.

And she must’ve visited their main page – Jehan’s blog directs to it, and she loves Jehan’s blog, so that’s, in all probability, how she got there – because on the main page, there’s their flatmatefinder. Courfeyrac set it up, so people can be sure their newfound flatmates don’t mind when they bring home girls, or boys, or refuse to bring home anyone at all, or want them to use pronouns different from what they had in mind. It’s a nice thing for everyone, a good idea: it’s how Marius came to share a flat with Courfeyrac, and how Bossuet, in a rare strike of luck, found Joly and Musichetta.

So it serves them all. But Jehan is the only one who actually _needs_ it. Which is why it annoys him to no end that now that he’s set up a profile, apparently every single Ami in the whole of Paris is living their dream, flatmate-situation-wise.

He lives through a seemingly never-ending cycle of couch-crashing at various Amis’ flats, which none of them minds, of course, but it’s starting to wear him down. That is, until Eponine calls, fake-happiness practically seeping through the line.

“Why didn’t you tell me you were looking for a flatmate? Move in with me this instant!”

Jehan notices her false cheerfulness and deduces that it’s something to do with her not-really-boyfriend-but-definitely-flatmate who she’s got a strange agreement with. It was just a matter of time, really. “Are you alright?” he asks. “Do you need help with Montparnasse?”

“Nah, I just should’ve kicked him out sooner. He uh. Made a bit of a mess of my apartment? But he’s gone for good; I made him leave the keys.” Eponine sounds less cheerful now, and more like someone who had a bit of a rough day. Jehan can’t determine if she’s still downplaying the situation or if she’s just gotten used to shit happening to her in bigger piles enough to stop caring as much.

“If he does come back, call me. I know a guy.” Jehan pauses, then: “Were you being serious about moving in together?”

“What? Yes, that’s what this phone call was about, what did you think? We’d be awesome flatmates!”

Jehan considers it: Eponine, coming home late from work, not minding him sitting in the living space epilating his legs while watching musicals on his laptop (instead, possibly, joining him?), her swift fingers braiding his hair in the morning while not wasting a second thought to her own, their wardrobes subtly mingling until they’re one. Eponine complaining about his hair clotting the sink, her skimmed milk next to his whole. They wouldn’t manage one day of separate expenses, Eponine because she wouldn’t care enough, him because he's too fond of sharing.

He comes to the conclusion that they would, indeed, be awesome.

“We will,” Eponine corrects him. “Come over, I‘ll let you in on all the details. I’m allowed to pick my own subtenants, so no worries about the landlord, all you have to do is sign and pay me.”

And that’s how he comes to move in with Eponine.


	9. Joly & Bossuet & Musichetta

Bossuet, as would probably surprise no one, suffers from nightmares in which he loses everything he holds dear (again). Naturally, it takes him a bit to go back to sleep after those.

He pads into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water. It’s not that his nightmares get to him, he’s not paranoid. He knows his dreams say nothing about his future. It’s just that he wakes up stressed and shaky from having to deal with yet _another_ catastrophe (real or not) and needs a bit of time to come back down.

He can hear Musichetta approach him, her little barefoot steps on the stairs aren’t trying to be quiet, so he doesn’t even have an excuse for dropping the glass when he turns around. Except maybe that her nightshirt hugs her curves in ways that he hasn’t dared think about before. The glass crashes to the floor, and of course the shards go all over the kitchen floor.

“Oh no,” says Musichetta softly. “Everything’s alright!” she calls upstairs as is custom by now whenever something breaks, and Joly calls back cheerily, “okay thanks!”

She steps closer, and Bossuet says, “Glass shards,” because whole sentences are too much for his sleep-addled and sexually frustrated mind. “You’re barefoot,” he adds, and Musichetta laughs.

It’s a soft sound that vibrates through her entire body. She’d be an awesome singer.

(She is. She sings when she’s cooking, and Bossuet likes to sneak into the kitchen and listen to the full and golden sound of her voice.)

“No worries,” she says, “I’ve got this.” And steps closer still. “I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

Bossuet knows Musichetta, he’s seen her, and this is not friend mode. This is flirt mode.

Bossuet isn’t going to say no.

Bossuet is going to fuck it up again.

Joly is going to throw him out.

Bossuet is going to end up on the streets with no friends.

As he deserves.

It’s all clear to him for a second, every step from now a logical conclusion of the one before, und _no fuck no he won’t let his bad luck rob him of this place and these people_ , and so he yells: “Joly! Come down, it’s an emergency!” at the exact moment Musichetta has all but bracketed him against the kitchen counter.

So when Joly rushes down the stairs with his hair mussed and his eyes wide in panic, Musichetta is pressed against him, her breath ghosting against his throat and arms half-wrapped around him. Bossuet squirms under Joly’s confused gaze.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, and _is he blind or something?!_

“Did she scare you?” Joly offers after a moment, softly.

“Evidently,” Musichetta says and backs off a bit, but shamelessly keeps a hand on his arm. Bossuet doesn’t get it. This is the moment he should be bombarded with dishes. Yelled at and thrown out. Why isn’t it happening?

He decides not to test his luck. Joly has never been one to rush to conclusions, so he’s probably waiting for an explanation.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

Joly’s eyebrows shoot up as he slings an arm around Musichetta, who has tiptoed her way out of the shards and curls into his side. He feels a rush of affection at the sight of them, and _it’s so fucking obvious why didn’t he realise this earlier oh fuck_

He hasn’t been falling for Joly. He isn’t attracted to Musichetta either. He’s drawn to them as a couple, and that is just. Not fair at all. Bossuet knows that he sucks at relationships: he tends to be unfaithful, and that’s bad enough already without him wanting to butt into an existing relationship of two perfectly content people.

“I’m sorry,” he repeats, “I’ve made a hash of this I’m so fucking sorry oh God. Just I have a tendency to cheat on people, and Musichetta looked for a moment like she’d want to make advances and I _knew_ I couldn’t say no, so. I panicked.”

There’s a brief silence and Joly _still_ doesn’t look particularly angry, and there’s something going on here.

“Oh _honey,_ ” Musichetta says, voice full of pity, and it’s directed towards _him_ , what the hell?

“If we’d known that, I’d have approached this whole topic differently,” she adds, and Joly tightens his grip around her waist, but it’s not a jealous hold, more of a reassuring squeeze. “I mean you _said_ you weren’t looking for dates at the moment, but we thought…”

“We?” Bossuet echoes.

“It was my idea,” Musichetta says. “We’ve talked it out and Joly was kind of glad that I was the one to bring it up, because he’s had a _crush_ on you from the moment he met you.” She says the word _crush_ teasingly, accompanied by an affectionate hip bump, and _okay,_ maybe he can see where this is heading but seriously he’s still not entirely sure because he’s _just not that lucky._

“We were going to ask you to join us,” Joly says, and he sounds a little nervous. “In… in whatever manner you’d like to. Just dates, if you prefer that, or just in the bed, if you don’t want a relationship. Or we could just see where it’s going.”

Maybe he _is_ that lucky.

Bossuet pauses for a second, because seriously, no. Things like these don’t happen to him, and if they do, it doesn’t turn out alright for him.

“Maybe I’m not the right person for this kind of thing,” he says eventually. “I’ve got a history of mucking up relationships. Granted, they’re usually my own, but…”

“Has it ever occurred to you that maybe that’s because you’re not cut out for this kind of relationship?” Musichetta asks.

“What kind? I’m into both kinds, and nothing worked out-“

“The two-people-exclusive kind. Maybe that’s not your thing. Maybe you need a little more freedom,” she says gently, and.

He’s never looked at it that way.

“You’re welcome,” Musichetta says, and there’s a smile hiding in her voice.

Bossuet throws all contemplation overboard and goes over to them and gives them a kiss each, because that’s how he goes about every decision in his life – he dives in head first.

Or at least that’s what he had in mind, before he steps on a shard that slices open his foot. Because as it turns out, figuring out his problem with committed relationship doesn’t cure him of his weird case of chronically bad luck.

*

“It’s like watching an amoeba eat,” Courfeyrac observes months later, when Bossuet trails Musichetta and Joly into the café, “the two of you are gradually absorbing him into your relationship and there’s absolutely nothing he can do.”


	10. Eponine, III

It’s one of their nights – Eponine has decided to finally give up hope for Marius to realise that all this time, he’s been secretly in love with her; and Jehan got to watch Courfeyrac charm yet another girl into joining his collection.

So they get spectacularly drunk and curl up on the couch to watch a horror film that’s far too horrible to be horrifying.

“We’re absolutely hopeless,” Jehan declares, two thirds into the supposedly frightful part of the film, “the two of us, we should have an affair, don’t you think?”

 

“Sounds like a splendid idea,” Eponine says from where she’s lying on the floor, feet propped up in Jehan’s lap. She got there after her last shot made the room spin a hint too much to be funny. “Let’s write it down and discuss it when we’re sober.”

And that’s what they do: Jehan gets up, carefully removing Eponine’s feet from his lap beforehand, and stumbles into the kitchen in search of pen and paper.  He finds a sharpie and a sticky note and writes: WE SHOULD HAVE AN AFFAIR, all in caps to emphasise the urgency, and sticks it to the fridge, where they’re bound to acknowledge its presence. Jehan knows sober him, he’d probably skirt the topic until they’d forget about it. He’s not going to let that happen.

That done, he slumps down on the sofa once more.

*

Jehan wakes up hungover like nobody’s business, feeling entirely unprepared for the pending task of getting out of bed. Thankfully, Eponine seems to be up and about already, judging by the painkiller and the glass of water on his nightstand.

Jehan does get up, eventually, watching the world spin around him through half-closed eyes, and gingerly feeling his way into the kitchen, where there’s coffee and an equally hungover Eponine to keep him company.

“Hey”, he croaks, pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“Hey”, Eponine says back with a matchingly ruined voice.

Jehan hesitates. He takes his coffee with milk, but to get the mild he’d have to open the fridge, and on the fridge…

Eponine saves him. She gets up, rips the note off the fridge, and slaps it onto the table. “So,” she commands. “Discuss.”

Jehan feels the blood rushing to his head and turns away quickly to open the fridge. “Um,” he says, “I seem to recall that the last time you had an _agreement_ with your flatmate it ended in tears?”

“It didn’t end in tears,” Eponine says resolutely, “it ended in me throwing him out because he was a dick. Nothing to do with him being my flatmate. Besides, we had a shit agreement. _Our_ rules will be different. Next.”

Jehan tries very hard to come up with another counter argument, but he doesn’t find one. _I don’t want to_ wavers through his mind and, after close examination, is found to be untrue.

“We need to be careful about this,” he says eventually.

“Agreed,” Eponine answers promptly. “We need to talk about everything. In fact, let’s make that rule number one.” And she grabs a pen to write it down.

“If we feel like we might fall in love, or like it’s making things worse, or something is strange or hurts or just doesn’t feel right,” Jehan offers, and Eponine puts it down in her neat script.

“I think that’s it. That’s all we need,” she says after a pause.

Jehan looks up, his cheeks probably flushed scarlet; unsure about what’s going to happen now.

Eponine grabs the list and gets up and around the table. She tips up Jehan’s chin and gives him a close-mouthed kiss on the lips, then pins the note back to the fridge.

*

Their sex is breathless laughter and unfinished insults, crooked smiles and fingers and nothing to be ashamed about. They set out to demystify, and they succeed: For all her fucked-uppity, her body is something Eponine is genuinely at ease with, and it’s refreshing. Infectious, even; sometimes Eponine comes through the door halfway changed back to a girl already, her make-up wiped off and hair a mess, and Jehan rushes to undress her, or unwrap her, until her soft breasts take up all the space they deserve and she lets out a deep breath. The only rule is to talk, and talk they do, never giving silence a chance to build a wall between them, slowly determining their boundaries.

It brings that extra bit of joy to their lives and nothing else: they don’t fall in love with each other; they don’t climb out of love any faster, if anything they’re less frustrated with it all.


	11. Names - Grantaire & Most Everyone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about repeating myself about Feuilly. Making something both standalone and part of a Universe can be kind of hard?  
> Also I changed Feuilly's obsession from Poland to Russia because of this post: http://delabaisse.tumblr.com/post/60574052647/tenlittlebullets-viventlespeuples  
> I thought in this setting Russia would work best, what with the recent absolutely disgusting anti gay laws and the whole hostile, violent attitude towards anyone queer or trans*.  
> So yeah. Because I wanted to solve the First Name Mystery, but it wouldn't fit into Five Conditions: Have this thing instead! Enjoy, and as always, please tell me about any mistakes you may find!

-          **Bastien Bahorel**

When Grantaire starts going first-name-hunting, he doesn’t even know of Les Amis’ existence. He drags, in a fit of sympathy, a bloodied, half-conscious, dead drunk man to his apartment and lets him sleep on his couch. The next morning, the man offers Grantaire his impressive fist and says, “Bahorel.”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. His last name has always been something to take cover behind to him, something that indicates a fight fought half-hidden from view, and so when he replies: “Georges,” and shakes the hand, it’s something of a mildly scolding peace-offering.

“Right,” Bahorel says, “it’s Bastien, actually. Sorry, people tend to call me by my last name. I do kickboxing, and there’s this group of friends, and I don’t even know most of their first names, no idea who started it.”

With the threat of it gone, Grantaire takes to calling Bastien Bahorel, who calls him, with noticeable pride of his own cleverness, R in return.

-          **Jean “Jehan” Prouvaire**

-          **Léon “Bossuet” Lesgle**

When Bahorel takes him to a meeting of said group of friends for the first time, he thinks about painting them (especially that young thing hovering by the corner with the flowers in their hair). Then, when they start introducing themselves, he thinks about wangling their first names out of them. And then, the blond man by the head of the table, whose beauty is almost too much of a clichéd perfection to make for an interesting art model, starts talking, and Grantaire momentarily forgets everything about names, quite possibly even his own.

Enjolras, if he remembers correctly, speaks with certainty, with vigour, inspiration and determination, in short: everything Grantaire lacks. He can tell that Enjolras is making an effort, trying to get Grantaire on their side, trying to impress him.

Grantaire is intrigued, except not with the decimation of homophobic slurs in football stadiums, but with Enjolras himself: his upright, unfaltering posture, his inspired words, and his clear but harsh voice. He wants to draw him – not his body, that one’s almost boring in its beauty, but his character. When the meeting is over, Grantaire doesn’t even pretend to be interested in the cause, he just comes up to Enjolras, shakes his hand and asks: “What’s your first name?” (It’s worked alright with Bossuet, so he figures he has a chance of success with straight-forward questions.)

“I go by Enjolras,” Enjolras answers. So much for that.

Grantaire supposes he needs a better plan and more time for this one.

He sacrifices a page of his notebook to said plan, writing down in neat script the full names of everyone who is willing to tell him. The list consists of three, so far, but he is quite confident that he’ll solve the mystery in no time at all.

-          **Fabien Feuilly**

-          **Jules “Jolly” Joly**

-          **Cécil Courfeyrac**

Feuilly is the only member of Les Amis Grantaire tries to keep his distance from.

Which is ridiculous, because Feuilly is the most laid back person he’s ever met. He’s got it all figured out, and all on his own. He doesn’t have family; he grew up in a shitty orphanage and then in an only slightly better foster home, and he still came to all the right conclusions. He’s the only member that found Les Amis on his own and just kept coming by. He works a tough job as a painter because he wanted independence from his foster parents as soon as possible, but in the evenings, he comes along to lectures: He accompanies Combeferre to lessons on anatomy and Courfeyrac to the driest lectures a law-study has to offer. He even tags along with Jehan when he goes to his poetry club.

Grantaire thought at first that he was lonely, but soon realised that he’s just that desperate for knowledge. Feuilly learns Russian for fun; he borrows Joly’s books on advanced medicine as bedtime reading. Feuilly loves knowledge like Grantaire loves a good steak.

Which is why Grantaire holds little to no interest for him. Grantaire is a fountain of random quotes and trivia; he knows the punch line of everything but never the whole story. He knows that Marie Antoinette’s last words ended up being “Pardon me, I did not do it on purpose” because she stepped on her executioner’s toe, after she spent a lifetime trying to find meaningful last words for herself. But if you ask him to give you something more detailed than a vague outline of the French Revolution, he’ll reach his limits quite soon.

And Grantaire himself doesn’t talk a lot to Feuilly because if anyone has the right to be disgusted by him, it’s him. Granted, Grantaire had a shitty past, but that’s nothing compared to Feuilly, and so when he plays the ‘I’m fucked up because my family was mean’ joker as an excuse for doing nothing but drinking and fucking around, which he does all the time, it’s an insult to Feuilly.

But of course, that doesn’t mean that he doesn’t want to know the man’s first name, so when he finds Feuilly’s purse lying around by the end of a meeting, he does the sensible thing and goes for the ID. It reads: Fabien Feuilly. Grantaire is starting to sense a pattern.

Grantaire considers throwing the purse in Feuilly’s letterbox and running, but Feuilly might need it now, and not everyone checks their letterbox every day, so he ends up ringing like a decent human being.

Feuilly presses the buzzer and awaits Grantaire standing in the open door to his flat.

“Grantaire,” he says with the air of someone who tries to cover up the fact that he’s surprised, and not pleasantly.

“I found your purse,” Grantaire answers, holding out his hand. What little he can see of Feuilly’s flat looks tiny but tidy, because of course it would. Grantaire thinks about his own hole of a flat, littered with trash and worn clothes, and winces.

“Oh,” Feuilly says with a little smile now and takes it, “thanks, dude. I didn’t even realise I’d lost it.”

Grantaire feels bad for nosing around, but he needed to know the man’s address, after all, so it’s all excusable and justifiable.

Feuilly must’ve seen the guilt on his face, though, because he asks: “Did you take something out of it?” It’s just a question, there’s no judgement there, and Grantaire thinks that he’s an idiot to believe that someone who wouldn’t even be mad if he stole his money is going to get pissed off because of a fucking first name.

“Ah, no,” he says, “I may have snooped around a bit and found out your first name, though. I hope that’s alright.”

And Feuilly laughs and says, “dude, no reason to look guilty, my first name is not a secret, you could’ve just asked!”

Grantaire’s need to end the conversation and his curiosity for more first names weigh about the same, so he ends up not saying anything until it’s almost awkward, and then he blurts out: “Do you know any of the other’s first names?”

Feuilly looks somewhat startled now, but decides to humour him: “Uh, Joly’s is Jules, I believe? His mom thought it’d be a good idea. He doesn’t agree, though, so don’t call him that. And Bossuet’s is Léon. And I _think_ Courfeyrac’s called Cécil or something, but I might be wrong.”

“Right,” Grantaire says, “I’ll ask him.” And then, because he can’t get enough, he adds, “you don’t happen to know Combeferre’s or Enjolras’, do you?”

Feuilly laughs now. “This is a weird hobby, R, even for you. No, I have no idea, and I don’t think anyone else knows. Possibly Jehan, because he went to the same school.”

(Jehan doesn’t. He’s been one of the first people Grantaire’s asked, because Grantaire is fascinated with his odd beauty and because Jehan seems to be one of the three founding members, if you could call it that.)

-          **Marius Pontmercy**

Marius is easy, because as much as he tries to get them to use his last name, Courfeyrac knows him as Marius, and it always creeps back in.

(Courfeyrac, whose name actually is Cécil, and Grantaire understands why he goes by Courfeyrac: It’s the single most fitting last name he’s ever heard, curling around his tongue like it wants to stay and then ending in a smile: Grantaire finds himself using it as much as he possibly can, just to feel the name in his mouth.)

-          **Cnut Combeferre**

Combeferre and Enjolras are tough, though. They don’t want to compare old passport photographs (even though Grantaire has a really funny one, both of them have to agree), they never leave their purses lying around, and don’t cave in to Grantaire’s persistent asking or even outright needling.

In an incredibly, impossibly weird turn of events, Grantaire starts sleeping with Enjolras, but he doesn’t find out his first name. It’s maddening.

After a particularly frustrating try, Grantaire slumps into one of the armchairs, sighing vaguely into Combeferre’s direction: “What is it with you two and first names?”

Combeferre looks at him above the rim of his glasses.

“Both our first names are kind of ridiculous. It took us ages to get our classmates to stop using them, and since then we’ve come to this silent understanding that if I give out his first name, he’ll spill mine in turn, and vice versa. Which is why none of us is willing to tell you the other’s name any more than their own,” he says eventually.

Grantaire thinks for a moment. “So I’ll have to sweeten the deal for you, since you’re practically selling two names instead of one,” he concludes. “Can I win you over with offers of sexual favours? I’ve been told I give excellent head.”

Combeferre looks somewhat taken aback, but the amused upwards-tilt to his lips tells Grantaire that he hasn’t screwed it up completely yet.

“I’m asexual, Grantaire,” Combeferre simply answers, and Grantaire says, “Oh. Okay. Kickboxing lessons, then? Fencing? Dancing? Drawing? No? Or I could draw _for_ you; don’t you need drawings for this book you’re writing? I’ll do those for free!”

“I don’t think you’ll want to draw moths till the end of your days, so no,” Combeferre says, “although that’s certainly an interesting offer.”

Grantaire sighs and leaves, but he doesn’t give up.

The next time Enjolras comes over, Grantaire behaves as smugly as he possibly can, which is very. He says, “Guess what I wangled out of Combeferre?” producing a piece of paper and making a show of unfolding it. “I mean, I had to offer him quite a lot, and why does nobody ever tell me anything, I didn’t know he’s ace and offered him a blowjob, which, _awkward_ , but I got him with the drawing thing. I’ll probably draw moths now until I’m like, eighty, but it’s _so_ worth it, Monsieur...” he stares at the blank paper in his hand and raises an eyebrow. “My question to you is what did your parents _take?_ How do you even _pronounce_ this monstrosity?”

Enjolras snatches the snippet from his hand and crumples it without even taking a look at it. “I’ll have you know,” he says indignantly, “that _Combeferre’s_ first name is Cnut, which is hardly better, is it?”

Grantaire collapses in silent bouts of laughter.

-          **Emerson Enjolras**

“Can I have a word with you?” Grantaire asks in a quiet moment at the next meeting.

Combeferre looks up from his book in surprise and hurries to say, “Yeah sure, of course, um. We could go outside for a minute?”

He looks positively shocked, so Grantaire adds, “it’s not that urgent or anything,” because really, Combeferre is the victim in this whole thing.

Combeferre still looks concerned when they make it outside. Grantaire takes his arm, rises to the tips of his toes and whispers: “ _Cnut._ ”

Combeferre’s expression goes from worried to suspicious in no time at all. “Who told you?” he asks.

“Enjolras did.” Grantaire makes a point of making it sound as ambiguous about it as possible so Combeferre won’t ask _why._

But Combeferre isn’t a genius for nothing; it takes him about ten seconds to figure it all out. He sighs. “You _tricked_ us. You tricked _us!”_

Grantaire can’t help being just a little proud of himself. “I know, right? I really earned those names. I swear I won’t tell anyone, but _please_ –“

Combeferre shakes his head. “Enjolras will _kill me_ ,” he says. He doesn’t say _would_ , but Grantaire isn’t going to jump to conclusions, although he’s probably already grinning like an idiot.

“I don’t suppose I can get you to draw those moths anyway now?” Combeferre asks after a bit.

Grantaire shrugs. “Ah, I could do some, just for the hell of it. Might actually be a good practice.”

Combeferre nods and stoops to whisper in Grantaire’s ear in return: “Emerson.”


	12. Jehan & Courfeyrac, II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jehan falls in love all the time, it's nothing new, really.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I changed Feuilly's obsession from Poland to Russia because of this post: http://delabaisse.tumblr.com/post/60574052647/tenlittlebullets-viventlespeuples  
> I thought in this setting Russia would work best, what with the recent absolutely disgusting anti gay laws and the whole hostile, violent attitude towards anyone queer or trans*.

Jehan falls in love a lot. He’s used to it, and normally it doesn’t take more than a bit of time and careful manoevring to make it fade into the lingering warm but less hurtful ghost of a feeling, which he accepts as part of his own background noise of emotions.

He falls in love with Enjolras at first sight: His angelic face and proud, angry dedication have Jehan attempt poetry for the first time, because Jehan can’t live in a world that doesn’t have a poem in it that at least _tries_ to capture Enjolras in all his glory. And maybe, possibly, it’s to do with the fact that Enjolras is one of the first two people who like him unconditionally after years of having to dull and change and censor himself for approval.

He climbs out of love again because Enjolras only ever sends confused looks his way when Jehan attempts to flirt with him, because Enjolras doesn’t _get_ romance, deems it a waste of time. The few occasions that Jehan caves and compliments Enjolras on his beauty are also the only times Jehan ever gets to see him speechless, and not in a good way. It’s more of a helpless flustered silence, and more often than not Combeferre has to jump in and help him out, with this _look_ on his face that Jehan has tried to describe as a feeling that has been locked up and is rattling the bars with little hope of escape.

He falls in love with Combeferre slowly, but steadily: The first time he meets him, he’s too blinded by Enjolras’ presence to fully appreciate Combeferre’s quiet friendliness. When the first few weeks of being in love with Enjolras have passed, there’s more emotional space left to consider the neat way Combeferre does things, the way he dedicates so much attention to his every task, his long-fingered hands carefully cradling fragile things, unscrewing bottles or even crumpling a piece of paper with elegance. He treads lightly, and his gaze is gentle compared to Enjolras’ unapologetic glare, but it’s his way with words that leaves Jehan truly breathless: His sentences are carefully planned out, yet don’t sound constructed; Combeferre can destroy whole points of view with a sentence that would fit in the palm of Jehan’s hand (and sometimes, Jehan does write them down there in sharpie; he likes to wear Combeferre’s words on his skin, likes to touch his fingertips to the loopy letters and mouth the words along with a tracing finger). Combeferre fairly often sounds like he’s in love with the words he arranges into arguments where Enjolras simply sharpens them into weapons.

Jehan inches his way away from love again when he finally realises what the trapped feeling that sometimes flickers across Combeferre’s face is: It’s that he’s in love with Enjolras. And once Jehan’s figured it out, it becomes more obvious by the minute. Combeferre sends glances towards Enjolras when the blond isn’t looking, always hovers close but never touches, and while he’s always genuinely wonderful to Jehan, his words to him get that muted quality to them on occasion, and then he pinches the bridge of his nose and his smile is strangely distant and Jehan feels far more sorry for Combeferre than he does for himself, because Combeferre seems to be the sort of person to fall in love maybe three times in his life, and be stuck with it for years each time.

Jehan falls in love with Grantaire when the man takes one look at him and asks, breathless: “Can I paint you?”

His knuckles are paint-stained more often than not, and Jehan has never seen anyone interpret the word beauty the way Grantaire does, with his paintings and drawings showing so much more character than appearance. He falls for the way Grantaire’s words sound almost like poetry when he isn’t paying attention. He loves the sound of Grantaire’s singing voice when he’s not deliberately making a hash of whatever pop song he’s singing, and the way he can make neatly constructed arguments crumble and fall with a few careless sentences. He loves his casual touches where others keep respectful distance. They kiss once, on Christmas Day, in the middle of a game of spin-the-bottle, and it’s brilliant and glorious and Jehan hopes for more.

Jehan gets the hell away from Grantaire when he notices that he’s not just regularly drunk but an actual alcoholic, because there’s such a thing as self-destructive behaviour, and deliberately falling in love with an addict is exactly that. He goes for friendship instead, asking Grantaire if he wants help, which Grantaire denies.

He falls in love with Feuilly because the man is so patient and confident, practically oozing calmness and considerateness in every risky situation they encounter; something much needed in their circle of friends. He takes Feuilly along to the meetings of his poetry club, basking in the way it makes his face light up: It’s more to do with knowledge than poetry, but it doesn’t matter, because Feuilly’s urge for knowledge is a perfectly valid reason for anything, really, and a beautiful thing on top of that. Jehan falls in love with his hands, with his sturdy fingers calloused from hard work. He loves that no matter how disappointing his work day has been, Feuilly never fails to show up to the meetings or to the evening lectures his friends have. He loves that no matter how tired Feuilly is, his smile never ceases to be genuine. He loves how, occasionally, Feuilly will open up and admit that he’s lonely, and on one of those occasions, Jehan simply leans over and kisses him. Feuilly kisses back with so much vigour Jehan is surprised for a second, and he spends a few minutes marveling at the fact that Feuilly can still surprise him.

They spend a few months together. Jehan will later tell anyone who will listen to him that he wouldn’t trade his first relationship for anything in the world, because it did make him that happy: They discuss politics on their dates, and it leaves them breathless and delighted. Sometimes, Jehan gets Feuilly to read Russian books to him, because he likes to listen to the foreign sounds from the familiar mouth. Jehan curls verses and poems and lyrics and quotes around Feuilly’s wrists and ankles, until Feuilly gets one of them tattooed: _the best way out is always through_ winds around his left ankle in Jehan’s loopy handwriting the day after a particularly harsh day at work, and in the following weeks, Jehan crouches down at odd times and taps the spot whenever he wants to remind himself or Feuilly. Jehan sometimes falls asleep on top of Feuilly, and Feuilly never minds.

It’s Jehan who moves on, and it’s Jehan who breaks up with Feuilly. The man takes it in stride, but sometimes Jehan can still see him sit hunched over with his face in his hands like Jehan knows he only ever does when loneliness is creeping up on him, trapping him. He wants to sit next to him and kiss it better, and not. So he sends Bahorel to cheer him up instead, because Bahorel may not be the best in noticing anything amiss with people, but he _is_ the best in cheering them up.  Jehan doesn’t know if the tattoo still exists or if he’s had it removed, but he still catches Feuilly absentmindedly rubbing his ankle from time to time. He feels guilty, but that doesn’t stop him from falling in love again.

He falls in love with Marius because Marius is a kind and innocent soul who looks like he just stumbled into the lion’s den that is Les Amis and now he’s too polite to run away screaming. Jehan loves the way he gets lost in watching a sunset or admiring the view from a mountaintop or petting a cat that crossed the street in front of him; the way he looks up afterwards and notices with surprise how much time has passed. Jehan loves the way he blushes at innuendo (usually from Courfeyrac) and his lips curve into a tentative smile when he’s made a joke that people actually laugh about.

He makes his way back to friendship when he finds out that Marius is hopelessly, unalterably straight, with no exceptions. Marius’ words almost trip over themselves when he tells him, eyes wide with guilt, and he adds the longest string of consecutive apologies that Jehan has ever witnessed. It’s rather cute, really.

So when he finally does fall in love with Courfeyrac, Jehan doesn’t put up much of a fight, in fact he’s been waiting for it to happen ever since Courfeyrac introduced himself to him and brought him a Cappuccino with a cat drawn into the milk foam. (The man is waiting on people for _fun_ , his parents are filthy rich but here he is, enjoying the company of others so much that he takes on a sideline on top of his study of Law, really, it was only a matter of time.) It happens slowly, and at first Jehan barely notices how he’s gradually paying more and more attention to Courfeyrac’s smiles, with their ability to light up a whole room full of depressed students after a particularly unsuccessful project. Courfeyrac is the most tactile person Jehan’s ever met, and pecks on his lips are nothing he isn’t used to, but they’ve been making him even more giddy and excited lately, so there’s that. To have all of that warmth and energy pressed against him in a quick hug always made for a rush of fondness, but now Jehan gets a tingly feeling along with it. So he knows. And he expects it. He might even welcome the feeling because it’s been a while, and he’s missed being in love.

He gives himself the usual few weeks for it to cool off, and then when it doesn’t, he starts to worry. It’s probably because Courfeyrac always flirts back, because he spends more time with Jehan than with any of his other friends, because he lets Jehan invade his personal space with no objections whatsoever. Jehan doesn’t _feel_ like this is a hopeless case, but he _knows_ that it is, because Courfeyrac is straight, or at least finds only women sexually appealing. That doesn’t seem to stop him from finding excuses to snuggle up to Jehan or hug him or kiss him on the cheek or unbraid and rebraid his hair after running his fingers through it, though. Which, in turn, doesn’t stop him from sleeping around a lot as is his wont, and then talk about it to whoever will listen. It’s a little stab each time, and as much as Jehan likes to wallow in the occasional melancholy, he stops appreciating the sharp pangs of jealousy after the second or so time.

It gets to a point where Jehan has to tell Courfeyrac to back off or make a move. “You’re not being very fair to me,” he says. “If you don’t like me like that, please treat me like any of your other friends so I can get the chance to fall out of love again.” Courfeyrac’s face falls, and a face like Courfeyrac’s falling is possibly the most heartbreaking sight Jehan has ever witnessed.

“But I don’t want you to,” Courfeyrac says slowly, and Jehan’s heart rises to his throat, hammering away. “It’s just that you deserve better than some guy who doesn’t feel entirely comfortable having sex with you.”

Jehan lets out a laugh. “Yeah,” he says, “maybe, but I’m sort of tired of waiting for that guy. How about you keep me company in the meantime?”

Courfeyrac frowns at him. “It’s,” he starts. “I’ll have to… test something first. If you don’t mind.”

And Jehan is clever enough to uncensor that sentence, and _God does he mind_ , but if it gets him Courfeyrac – what can he do other than say _no, of course, go ahead!_ and watch Courfeyrac saunter up to Grantaire after their next meeting, countering the man’s wide smile with one of his own.

Jehan spends the night with Eponine, in a blur of fierce, bruising kisses and gasped insults, trying not to think about how Courfeyrac and Grantaire would fit together perfectly, and failing. Eponine eyes him with concern afterwards, when they’re lying next to each other in the too-small bed, and Jehan tells her. Oh, Courfeyrac would be perfect for Grantaire, much better than Enjolras, and what if they come to the same conclusion? Eponine tells him not to worry. He tries. He fails.

So when Courfeyrac asks him out on a date the next day, his expression relaxed and completely at ease with himself without the familiar strain of holding back, Jehan really shouldn’t be surprised.

But he is, and when he allows himself to draw Courfeyrac close for a hug, he can actually feel his own tension melt away and hear a breath escape that he’s been holding for far too long.


	13. Courfeyrac & Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just in case anyone was wondering who Grantaire was having sex with in the [latest chapter](http://archiveofourown.org/works/828993/chapters/1656352) of Five Conditions.  
> Also I'm really really frustrated because I know EXACTLY what my Grantaire looks like but I can't describe him to you and there are no photos of the guy I'm getting my ideas from on the internet. But, yeah. Enjoy! 
> 
> Oh right and there's talking about sex in this chapter, and some kissing, but I thought Teen And Up would still be justified. Let me know if you think otherwise!

Grantaire sits on top of one of their tables, loose-limbed, with an empty beer bottle sitting next to him, not exactly paying attention to the ongoing meeting. Courfeyrac tells Enjolras that he needs to ask Grantaire something after the meeting, and Enjolras shoots him a questioning glance but agrees to quit the field and leave them to it.

When Courfeyrac comes up to him, Grantaire’s face twists into a wide smile, exposing teeth and gums alike. “Courfeyrac, my friend,” he says. “What’s up?”

“I need a favour,” Courfeyrac answers with a smile of his own.

“I figured. What sort of favour?”

Courfeyrac feels vaguely guilty. Does he really only address Grantaire when he needs something? He resolves to stop. “Yeah, no, I shouldn’t have started like that. It’s not, actually, a favour, it’s more of a question. About something I thought you might like to do, but if you don’t, that’s fine.”

Grantaire arches an eyebrow. “Yes?” he drawls. “I’m getting more confused by the minute, Courfeyrac, spill!”

“Ah, I told you about my awful first and last time with a man, right?”

“I remember telling you that the way you went about it was absolutely horrible, and that the guy was a douchebag for not asking properly,” Grantaire answers. “What’s the matter?” He sounds attentive now, more than just vaguely interested. You can say about Grantaire what you want, but he _does_ care a lot about his friends.

“Well, it’s probably no secret that I’m hopelessly smitten with Jehan, yeah? And he likes me, too, so. The remaining problem is that I’m not into gay sex.”

Grantaire reaches for his bottle and seems disappointed to find it empty. “Gay sex isn’t strictly defined, you know. You don’t have to like it up the arse to like gay sex. There’s no ultimate goal, no ‘proper’ way of doing it. I have never once been fucked or have fucked anyone in the arse, but that doesn’t mean I haven’t had gay sex.”

Courfeyrac laughs. “You know, I really like that state you’re in when you’re tipsy enough to talk about sex for hours without hesitating or blushing.”

“That’s because sex isn’t actually that big a deal. It’s nothing special; we should be talking about it all the time, like the weather. It would certainly make it easier to avoid situations like your first time with a man, therefore enabling you two sickening lovebirds to ride into the sunset together without complications, no pun intended.” Grantaire, content with his speech, leans back on the heels of his hands.

“But I don’t even like the way men _kiss_ ,” Courfeyrac finds himself complaining.

Grantaire smirks up at him. “How do men kiss, then, Courfeyrac? Pray tell,” he says, the mocking now evident in his tone.

“Too much tongue, not enough air,” Courfeyrac sums up, and is surprised to find Grantaire laughing.

“And because the last guy you had sex with happened to be a bad kisser, you just assume that any and all boys kiss like that?” Grantaire puts his elbow on his knee and rests his chin in his hand. “That’s not the way Jehan kisses, though. Do you want me to show you?”

“How do you know the way Jehan kisses?” Courfeyrac asks, edging closer to Grantaire’s extended hands.

Grantaire waves a hand through the air. “Oh, drunken game of spin-the-bottle on one of our lonely Christmas Evenings, you know how it goes,” and with that, he crosses his ankles behind Courfeyrac’s legs, effectively trapping him in his embrace. He tips Courfeyrac’s chin up and brushes their noses together. His lips are still curled into a slight smile, and Courfeyrac thinks, bringing up a hand to Grantaire’s waist, that it’s hard to be anything but completely relaxed in Grantaire’s presence.

And then their lips touch, and Courfeyrac opens his mouth, Grantaire following suit, and it’s nothing but familiar warmth. Grantaire burrows a hand in Courfeyrac’s hair and gets them closer together by digging the soles of his feet into Courfeyrac’s thighs, and then his tongue dips into Courfeyrac’s mouth and touches the tip of his own before retreating. Courfeyrac finds himself chasing it, and within a few seconds their roles are reversed and _he’s_ the one kissing _Grantaire_ , crowding him against the table, towering over him, and getting kind of breathless in the meantime because _Jesus, fuck, this is one hell of a kiss._

Courfeyrac is _this close_ to climbing on top of the table for more leverage when Grantaire breaks the kiss.

“So this happened,” he says, sounding somewhat breathless and amazed, raking a hand through his hair.

“You were really _really_ close to convincing me,” Courfeyrac pouts, not pulling away just in case Grantaire changes his mind. “Speaking of which, what I wanted to ask you…”

Grantaire actually _winks_. “Come ‘round the day after tomorrow. I’ve got a busy schedule. You’re not the only guy I’m showing the benefits of gay sex, you know.”


	14. Eponine & Combeferre

Eponine is noteworthy.

That’s the first thing Combeferre thinks when Eponine turns up at the party wearing a tank top and wide Aladdin trousers, one arm slung loosely around Jehan’s waist.

He has liked her before, for the sole reason that Jehan’s smiles have been even more brilliant lately and his phases of melancholy somewhat less personal and more of the ‘pondering the inherent sadness of the world’ kind.

He likes her now, because she charms her way beneath Grantaire’s shell within mere _seconds,_ just by flashing him a toothgapped smile and linking arms with him on the way to the makeshift bar. Combeferre catches Grantaire briefly looking away with a bewildered smile, and then turning back to her, smile slowly transforming, as if he’s not sure whether this should be the moment where he starts his whole deliberately horrible flirting thing.

He likes her now, because she catches Bossuet’s glass just before it hits the floor and engages him in a conversation while putting it back on the table as if nothing had happened.

He likes her now, because she dimples her way out of an argument with Bahorel, slapping him on the back as if he was nobody to be afraid of _,_ and suddenly they’re both laughing.

Combeferre decides that he’s collected enough reasons to like her, and joins her at the bar.

“Hey,” he says. “I haven’t introduced myself yet, I’m Combeferre.”

She looks up. “Hey,” she says. “You’re Enjolras’ best friend, right?”

He nods. That’s usually the first thing that comes to mind, and it has long stopped bothering him. He knows that he won’t get attention if he doesn’t actively demand it, and here he is, come to get his share. “Can I get you anything?” he asks.

“I thought the drinks were free?” she gestures behind the bar, where Grantaire is fixing himself yet another one.

“Yes,” he says. “That was more of a heads-up that I’d like to chat you up in order to give you a chance to get out of the conversation with a nice excuse.” He frowns. “I probably shouldn’t have said that. You can pretend I haven’t.”

She laughs and combs a hand through her short hair. “Oh! In that case. Um, sure? You could bring me something truly insulting to the eye.”

Combeferre slides off the barstool and over to Grantaire. “Hey, Grantaire? Do we have anything neon-coloured?”

He brings her a bright blue drink, complete with cocktail umbrella and a slice of an orange. She welcomes it with a delighted grin, and even manages to keep a straight face while taking a sip. Combeferre is suitably impressed.

"One thing, though," she says, and Combeferre pushes his glasses up the brink of his nose. This is probably the big _but_.

(It isn’t.)

"How come I haven’t noticed you before?" she asks.

"Oh, that," he says. “Nobody does. It’s my secret super power."

He’s noticed before: Dumb jokes, coming from him, seem to have a much greater effect than they should, judging solely by their level of hilarity. Something to do with expectations clashing with reality. Eponine laughs, her tooth gap showing. (How can the absence of something be so incredibly endearing?)

"As secret super powers go, it’s rather boring, isn’t it?" she says.

"I wouldn’t say that. They let me do all the illegal stuff at demonstrations because nobody ever remembers my face."

"Your face is worth remembering, though," she says softly.

"I beg to differ."

"Not accepted."

-

"I kind of thought you were gay," Eponine admits, between two sips of her drink.

"Ah, yes. I’m into people, mostly," Combeferre answers, bracing himself for a long debate. Not that he thinks Eponine would start it, but just in case. Bisexuality is not a trait that’s appreciated in guys, for whatever reason.

"Do you have a preference, though?" she pries on, “I mean I’ve fallen for girls in the past, but it doesn’t happen a lot."

"Not really," Combeferre answers. “Gender doesn’t really matter to me? There’s no genderspecific quality that I value in a partner or anything. I mean, I see a mind before I see a face," Combeferre tries to explain. It always comes out sounding awfully pretentious, which is why he rarely bothers.

"One wouldn’t think, what with Enjolras," Eponine says, “and Jehan and Courfeyrac."

It’s something Combeferre has spent a lot of time pondering, and there is no subject he doesn’t want to share his musings about. Just taboos and social conventions, and this is not one of them. “Enjolras happens to have a stunning mind as well as a beautiful face," Combeferre explains. “Those things do occasionally coincide, though it tends to make most people kind of aggressive. As for Courfeyrac, I think his character has been influenced by his looks. He’s always been met with unusual kindness due to his inherited advantages, and that’s why he gives away kindness so freely. And with Jehan, it’s the other way around - his melancholy, his ability to sympathise despite his own problems, his fascination with words, his overall genuineness is a big part of what makes him beautiful, don’t you think?"

Eponine nods. She edges a touch closer, taking her drink from the bar to be able to fully turn towards him. “Tell me what you see in the others," she demands. “What about Joly?"

"That upwards-tilt to his mouth that’s always there, even when he’s listing off all 300 known kinds of bacteria that reside in a human mouth," he says, smiling at the image. “The way the tips of his eyebrows go up when he’s worried about a friend, and that extra spring in his step when both Musichetta and Bossuet accompany him."

Eponine turns around on her barstool to pick a new subject. She finds it in Grantaire, who is well on his way to shitfaced and currently being approached by Courfeyrac. “Grantaire," she says.

Combeferre looks over to where Grantaire is eyeing his empty glass with a frown. “His proud smile when he’s showing off - a painting, or a punch line, or a punch - completely devoid of his usual self-deprecation. The way his words soften when he’s addressing Enjolras, losing their cynicism but never their wit. How his eyes widen in surprise when you compliment him, or acknowledge his existence in general. It’s rather sad, really. I feel kind of protective of him."

Eponine doesn’t miss a beat. “Enjolras," she commands.

Combeferre shakes his head slightly. He’s made it a rule not to think about what speaks in favour of Enjolras, and he’s not going to break it, not even for Eponine. Especially not for Eponine.

"Well then," she says, unfazed. “What about me?"

Combeferre doesn’t break eye contact with her. But he does shift a bit. “You’re intentionally putting me in a vulnerable position," he observes. “Why is that?"

"I’m curious," Eponine replies, swirling her drink. “Come on, I can take a bit of criticism, if that’s what you’re worried about."

It isn’t. Combeferre exhales almost inaudibly before he sits up and braces himself. “Your tooth gap that shows when you laugh out loud, the way you do when you’re not feeling pressured in any way. Your dimples that you could work like a switch but rarely do. The way you look away right now, like you’re trying to hide something and it makes me wonder what. How you stand and move like you’re completely unaware of your body. The way your laugh lines show when you’re suppressing a smile because you know you shouldn’t find something funny. Yours and Jehans touches that happen so frequently and just seem to blend in because they fit. Your hands, when your fingers curl unconsciously."

Her lips are curling into a slow smile, but Eponine still doesn’t look up at him, until Bossuet saves them by shouting over “Combeferre, Eponine! Quit flirting and look at Grantaire’s paintings of Enjolras! Seriously, they’re awesome!" and she hops off the barstool, offering him a hand.

"Dude," she says while they’re making their way over, “we are _so_ going on a date, just so you know."


	15. Grantaire & Everyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Being friends with Enjolras means, occasionally, giving him a well-deserved kick in the butt. Grantaire doesn't grasp the concept.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Grantaire's POV of what happened at the party. Related to Chapter 6 of Five Conditions. If you haven't read Five Conditions, have some quick explanations: Grantaire is sleeping with Enjolras and also painting him, and Enjolras is making him keep quiet about the former and use the latter as an alibi. There are other rules as well.

“So, Grantaire, what have you been doing lately?” asks Courfeyrac, startling Grantaire out of his haze.

 _Don’t say Enjolras_ , his brain supplies helpfully. Grantaire gropes for the next best thing. “Been painting a lot, you?”

“Oh right, Enjolras told us about it, do you have a picture? Come on, show us!” Jehan cuts in before Courfeyrac can answer, and Grantaire suddenly finds himself surrounded by the curious faces of his friends, demanding to see the painting.

Grantaire _could_ lie and say he doesn’t have one, but he’s drunk, and he revels in the attention, and in all honesty, he _is_ quite proud of his latest paintings, so he takes out his phone.

“You won’t be able to see anything anyway, it’s too small,” he says, thumbing through shots of various paintings in search for a decent one. He finds the one that shows Enjolras in full regalia, boots and all, lying on his bed with his knees drawn and his hair in an unruly halo on the pillow, and shows it to the others, eliciting delighted “Ooooh”s and “Aaah”s. He grins, slumping back into his chair, and lets Courfeyrac snatch the phone from his hand to get a better look at the painting.

“I thought he said you’d insisted on drawing him as Jesus?” Courfeyrac asks, and Grantaire snorts.

“You know, it _might_ be a sign of you taking yourselves too seriously as a group if you don’t think Enjolras capable of joking,” he says, draining his glass.

“What’s it called?” Jehan asks, trying to get another glimpse of the painting, but Courfeyrac doesn’t seem to notice him, staring at the phone.

“Uh,” Grantaire says, “it’s untitled.” It isn’t, not in his head.

“Untitled?” Jehan asks, the _how boring_ an undercurrent Grantaire chooses not to hear. “I’ve never seen a painting of yours without a title. C’mon, you’ve got to have an idea!”

“Well it _was_ going to be named ‘Apollo resting’, but there’s the No Stupid Nicknames rule, so,” Grantaire says, and immediately regrets it, because Courfeyrac perks up and gets that look on his face that says _there are wrongs to be righted._ Grantaire doesn’t want to be righted.

It’s Combeferre who speaks up, though. “There are rules?” he asks, softly.

“No,” Grantaire says, but Courfeyrac keeps that expression of his. Grantaire finds himself wanting to wipe it off. He crumples a napkin in his hand, longing for another drink. “Yes?” he tries again, and this time, it sets Courfeyrac off.

“Sounds to me more like an affair sort of thing, rules,” he says, tossing the phone onto the table in front of him.

The painting it displays is not a modest one. It shows Enjolras insufficiently covered by a blanket and decidedly not caring. Grantaire pockets the phone before anyone else can see it, looking up to Courfeyrac.

He could play dumb. He could say it was just his imagination, and not to tell Enjolras, _please please please, he’ll hate me for the rest of his life_.

But Grantaire is drunk, and he’s tired of hiding, and so what he ends up saying is, “I wasn’t supposed to tell you.”

“Is that a rule, too?” asks Combeferre, sounding very grave now.

“It’s Condition Number One,” Grantaire admits, and oh, he’s pretty sure the last time Courfeyrac looked so furious was when Jehan had showed up at the Musain sporting a limp and a black eye.

“Some fine sense for human decency he's got," Courfeyrac says, and that. Grantaire has seen the two of them bicker, and argue, and he's heard Courfeyrac make fun of Enjolras, but this is the closest Courfeyrac has ever got to being actually angry with Enjolras. Grantaire doesn't like it.

"To be fair," he says, "I kind of asked for it in all caps and pretty please with a cherry on top?"

"Not a reason to treat someone like shit," Jehan cuts in, "just because they agree to! It's like hitting someone because you know they won't call you out on it. It's just a dick move on his part."

That's the tenor of it, and frankly Grantaire's horrified, because these are Enjolras' friends, aren't they supposed to side with him, if choosing a side at all?

"Not if he's being a dick," Courfeyrac answers, because apparently Grantaire has said that last thing out loud. He needs to shut up. He needs to sleep for a year and forget about this whole thing. "It's a friend's duty to speak up when you're acting like one of the people you despise and make metaphorical slush out of for a living."

Grantaire rubs his eyes. He's too drunk to be dealing with this, but apparently he doesn't have a choice but to argue about whether he's getting to keep the one thing that makes him happy in his life. With Enjolras' friends. Which is just not fair at all, because all of them are exceptionally good at arguing (it's why they're his friends). "So I don't have a say in whether or not I can keep on sleeping with him, even if it's actually making me happy? Even if I'm okay with the hiding thing and all the other stupid rules?" he asks, wanting very much to just put his head on the table and close his eyes, but there's a mission.

"You're in love with him, you'd let him do anything," Courfeyrac answers, "but what he needs right now is a good old kick in the ass, and what sort of friends would we be not to provide satisfaction to his every need?"

"We aren't trying to sabotage your affair," Jehan says, "we just want to make Enjolras see some reason because seriously, you don't want to keep being treated the way he treats you right now, do you?"

Grantaire shrugs. He doesn't _want_ to, but if that's the price he has to pay, he'll pay it. "I just want y'all to know that I've never been happier... or closer to happy in my life, and please don't ruin this?"

This is when Combeferre steps in. "A word, Grantaire?" he says, and Grantaire realises that this is the first thing he's said in this whole discussion at all, and now he's pulling Grantaire into the kitchen and closing the door behind them.

Grantaire's seen the two of them, how close they are. Any closer and they'd be the same fucking person. Maybe Enjolras does have someone to side with him after all.

But after he's made sure they're alone, what Combeferre says is, "I think Enjolras may well have fallen in love with you."

Grantaire stares. Then he laughs. "Have you _seen_ him? I'm pretty sure he's incapable of loving anything but his cause. Much less me."

Combeferre pushes his glasses up his nose, looking past Grantaire by an inch. "That's the thing," he says, "I've spent years of my life looking out for signs of him being in love, and I think now's the closest he ever got to actually showing any."

Grantaire doesn't know what to say. He'd wondered about Combeferre, of course he had, everyone had, because it'd be the simplest conclusion. And maybe because he hasn't figured out yet how _not_ to be in love with Enjolras, and so he just assumes that everyone else must have fallen for him, too.

"I just wanted to say," Combeferre goes on, the slightest hint of a flush creeping up his cheeks, "it's a legitimate assumption. And it is well possible that you don't have to let yourself be treated like this, because maybe Enjolras would treat you better if only you spoke up about it."

Grantaire knows Combeferre's _well possible_ s. He knows his _legitimate assumptions_. He knows that there's a 99.9% chance he's right, or else he wouldn't say it at all. But he's got a feeling that Combeferre's wrong about this one.

"Don't you think he'd be treating me differently to start with?" he asks.

"Not necessarily. Enjolras is far from perfect, especially when it comes to social things. He'll do whatever people will let him get away with, not out of cruelty, just because he doesn't give it enough thought. He lies, if he feels like it might spare him trouble. Takes people for granted. He doesn’t let them get a word in edgeways, forgets about every promise he's made if it's not serving him. Have you never wondered why all of his friends seem to be silver-tongued and know full well how to speak up? It's because he needs people who can call him out on his bullshit."

Combeferre using swearwords is a rare occurrence, and only ever used for emphasis. Grantaire decides to let go of the matter. "Just," he starts, and then realises it would be a shit thing to say to Combeferre. What does he want, anyway? Is he seriously asking Combeferre to make an effort to get Grantaire the kind of relationship he wants, with the man Combeferre has been in love with for the past two years? "You don't need to," he finishes lamely, "If you don't feel like doing it. I imagine the others are going to have a lot of fun as it is."

"I want to. He listens to me more than he does to the others," Combeferre replies, "and I promise I'll give my best to convince him to stay with you and treat you better instead of ending it and not treating you at all."

Combeferre's promises are a rock to build on. They are a worthy stone number one. Grantaire nods. "Thank you," he says. "And if you ever need someone to talk you..." The sentence peters out. Grantaire doesn't know how not to sound like a dick about it. Enjolras should have gotten Combeferre. If anyone deserves Enjolras, it's Combeferre.

"I'm over it," Combeferre assures him, "or very nearly, anyway. But I'll come to you, should there be anything to talk about, thank you."


	16. Jehan & Bahorel, II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during the famous party.

Bahorel has had his fair share of passing out on desks among his friends, and so when he wakes up and spots something dark out of the corner of his eye, he goes for soap and disinfectant immediately and leaves for the bathroom. He expects the usual penises and ‘I’m gay’s – though probably not exactly that, considering whose party this is – but that’s not what the mirror shows him.

Half his face is covered in what appears to be poetry, written with a fine sharpie and a lot of patience, by its looks: there’s something on his eyelids even, which is saying something about carefulness and the depth of his sleep.

He is walking poetry: Bahorel spends a while admiring the way the letters shrink and grow when he smiles or frowns, trying to decipher them back-to-front.

He forgets about soap and disinfectant and goes looking for Jehan instead, so Jehan can read him out loud.

He finds him standing next to Eponine at the bar, mirroring his smile when he turns around and sees him: “Do you like it?” he asks, and Bahorel says: “I’m considering getting it tattooed,” which, okay, is a lie.

“Read it to me,” he demands, and Jehan starts reciting without hesitation. It’s a foreign language, something Scandinavian or perhaps German, but he makes it sound so peaceful even with the sharp hissing or throaty growling sounds.

Jehan is a marvel, and Bahorel is aware of that fact.

Their friendship has always been a careful one, because Jehan sometimes gets this forlorn look and Bahorel couldn’t bear it if he was the reason. But that doesn’t mean that theirs is a less important or valued friendship.


	17. Combeferre

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it's ace amis week, which is why I've decided to upload this thing as well. This is the third chapter in two days, right? Sorry.

At age thirteen, Combeferre thinks sex is just one of those things everyone is making into a big deal because people expect them to. Like with football before, and cars and celebrities a little later on. He does the exact same thing he did back then: becomes familiar with the basics, smiles at the jokes even though they aren’t funny in the least, and stays the hell out of it otherwise.

But this time, apparently, that’s not enough, because people don’t _stop_ talking about sex. Even his mother joins them, when she gives him the sex talk (which she didn’t do with football, even though football is potentially dangerous as well). Combeferre leaves her room with a sense of impending doom, because she insisted that he’d soon start finding it appealing _and he doesn’t want to._ On his own, Combeferre does a bit more research on the subject (clearly, there has to be something he’s missing) and discovers a hundred and thirty four ways that it could go wrong. He reads about pleasure, too, but dismisses it as a myth. It _has_ to be one of those things people pretend to take pleasure in to make others jealous, or to fit in.

Combeferre doesn’t fit in, he never has, but he doesn’t stick out either, so he gets away with it. He spends two years trying to think up new responses to the same boring subjects his classmates can’t seem to get enough of. He throws in a comment here and there about nice dimples or beautiful hair or nicely shaped legs, but they all seem to be _almost_ missing the point, getting him strange looks and maybe a few seconds of awkward silence but at least no pointed questions.

Two years later, Combeferre stops bothering altogether, because he falls in love with Enjolras, and that’s enough of a problem. He doesn’t bother trying to explain to himself why he doesn’t dream about having sex with Enjolras; if anything, he’s grateful. It’s probably about dignity, the way he flinches away from imagining him naked and panting, but doesn’t stop himself from thinking about arms wrapped around him and lips pressed to his. He makes a point of defining his vague sense of not quite fitting in as bisexuality, and gets a warm smile from Enjolras when he tells him.

At age sixteen, he’s touch starved and sleep deprived for most of the time, but not sexually frustrated. He decides to be grateful and not think about it, since it’s not really a priority at the moment (so much to discuss, so much to plan and talk about and set up!)

When he meets Jehan and, shortly thereafter, Courfeyrac, being touch starved stops being an issue entirely, and Combeferre feels like breathing clean air for the first time after years of living inside a cloud of smog. They don’t ask him about his sex life, but he’s pretty sure they figure out the Enjolras thing quite early on.

It takes him all of four years to move on. Enjolras is by his side for all of them, and knows his struggle for half of them. Combeferre is sure they’ll stay friends until they die. When he starts to talk about how people tend to overrate sex, he’s right there with him, going _yes, exactly_ at all the right times: Why won’t people stop making such a fuss about it, and let those who want it, have it - and how and with whom they want as long as nobody’s being harmed in the process - and leave those who don’t alone?

Enjolras admits to being curious, though, and Combeferre shrugs and says nothing. Curious he may be, in a detached, scientific way, and a part of him wants to be the person that Enjolras decides to satisfy his curiosity with, but he's pretty sure it's for reasons different from Enjolras': It stems from wanting to see and understand all of him, everything there is; it's about wanting Enjolras' vulnerabilities all for himself and protecting him from harm as thoroughly as possible. 

He starts thinking about labels and how _bisexual_ doesn’t quite seem to fit him. He knows about asexuality, of course he does, it’s part of their _job_ to know, but he never really gets to the point where he wants to redefine himself. It’s not a priority, and fuck labels anyway, so when Courfeyrac points out how Les Amis de LGBT sounds horrible _and_ lacks a Q and an A, Combeferre says: “It’s more of a representation thing. Kind of like how ABC stands for the whole alphabet.”

They end up calling themselves Les Amis de l’ABC, inviting everyone who wants to join them and add a letter.

He asks Eponine out on a whim, and spends a sleepless night trying to figure out a solution that doesn’t involve false pretenses or her running in the opposite direction at high speed.

He ends up suggesting that he’s okay with her continuing her current _thing_ with Jehan, and she flashes her toothgap at him, charmed but completely clueless still. He stops fumbling for words and focuses on more harmless topics for the rest of the evening. It’s not a first date kind of thing anyway.

It turns out to be a sixth date kind of thing, because Eponine asks him if he wants to come up for coffee, and he ends up telling her that he doesn’t really like sex.

“Never have?” she asks. Combeferre shakes his head.

“Come up anyway,” she offers then, and that’s that. Combeferre wakes up with the back of her head pressed to his forehead, her short hair tickling his nose, and smiles.

Of course that’s not all. Of course there are still discussions to be had, and things to be figured out. Combeferre doesn’t for one second think that this is it, but all things considered, he thinks, they’re managing quite well so far.


	18. Combeferre & Courfeyrac

Courfeyrac and Combeferre become friends a few weeks into their acquaintance, when Combeferre’s irrational fear of being replaced by Courfeyrac finally dies down and allows for more genuine affection to surface.

After that, they get along splendidly, because they seem to share a mind in everything that matters, and complete each other in everything else.

They meet up sometimes just for the sake of getting into heated discussions, because Combeferre likes to play the devil’s advocate just so he can see Courfeyrac get all furious and talk with this incredible speed and this spot-on precision that comes with being an experienced speaker, and then steal his arguments for his own use. (Courfeyrac doesn’t notice until Combeferre explicitly tells him, and then he breaks out in a grin and says _you sneaky motherfucker_ and that’s that.)

Sometimes, Courfeyrac just shows up on Combeferre’s doormat with a bag of take-away and a grin – most of the time when he’s immerged in his study and hasn’t answered his texts in a few days (he always warns them beforehand, so it’s not like anyone actually worries) and just spends a bit of time in his apartment, offering the occasional back rub when Combeferre looks particularly tense, and ending up eating more than half of the food he brought because Combeferre is on a roll and isn’t going to interrupt it for something as mundane as _food_.

Sometimes, they celebrate passed exams with a huge film night, because their taste in films overlaps in the most splendid fashion, and that’s possibly one of Combeferre’s favourite things in the whole wide world (but don’t tell Enjolras).

It’s on one of those nights, when the film is over and mugs with hot chocolate and marshmallows are steaming on the coffee table but none of them gets up because Courfeyrac’s head is resting in Combeferre’s lap and they’re in the middle of a conversation and also, the flat is kind of cold and Combeferre chickens out every time one of his bare feet emerges from the blanket he’s covered himself with.

“So I’m pretty sure I’m in love with Jehan,” Courfeyrac concludes, and he doesn’t say it lightly, or like it’s the good thing that it should be. “And the sex is pretty amazing as well. But I’m not, I don’t look at him and go _oh I’d tap that._ I’m not sexually attracted to him.”

“So you’re not. Is that a problem?”

“I – yes! He deserves someone who cherishes every part of him, I don’t want him to feel like he’s not desirable in _any_ aspect!”

“Courfeyrac, it’s not as big of a problem as you are making it out to be, I don’t think. Not being sexually attracted to someone doesn’t mean you can’t have sex with them, or that the sex won’t be as good, but if you don’t want to, then not wanting to have sex with someone doesn’t mean you can’t be in a relationship with them. Provided you weren't dating him, if I were to be in love with Jehan, and he was in love with me, would you discourage me from asking him out?”

“What – no – are you…” Courfeyrac’s words stutter to a halt, and Combeferre is pretty sure he has never seen him this flustered.

“What were you referring to, my sexuality or my sentiments towards Jehan?” he asks, amused. Courfeyrac pulls himself together and angles a slight smile towards him.

“I’m not surprised about your being ace, but it _would_ be kind of a shock if you were in love with Jehan,” he says. “Because I’m pretty sure Jehan’s at least a little bit in love with you, and I don’t think I’d stand a chance.”

“Jehan’s in love with everyone, that’s the wonderful thing about him,” Combeferre muses, “but no. Just, hypothetically. Would you?”

“No, of course not. But you don’t see _anyone_ that way, so he wouldn’t feel inadequate about it, you see?”

Combeferre buries his hands in Courfeyrac’s curls, nails scraping against his scalp, and Courfeyrac closes his eyes with a pleased hum.

“He doesn’t have to feel inadequate if you’re able to talk to him about it like a grown-up. If you want to use fancy labels that explain everything in a very short time, the term is “panromantic heterosexual”, but you know how I feel about labels. Things may change, and if they do, that’s fine. And if they don’t that’s fine too. Just make sure you talk about it, and let him decide on his own.”

Courfeyrac hums in agreement, a sleepy, warm sound that has Combeferre bite his own smile so that it won’t escape.

“While we’re at it,” he says eventually, “do you have any tips for sex with women?”

“Eponine, huh?” Courfeyrac asks with a lazy smirk. “She’s not pressuring you into anything is she?”

“No, it was all me. All she had to say about it up till now was ‘come up anyway’ and now, two months into our relationship, ‘is the no sex thing negotiable or would I do better to leave it be?’  but at that point I’d already decided to give it a shot.”

“Well then. I don’t think I’ll be helpful, it’s not like there’s a foolproof way or a universal recipe or something. Just watch her face and interpret her movements and make sure to talk. Even if it threatens to deromanticise the situation, Eponine doesn’t strike me as the sort of person who would be afraid to tell you where to touch and when to stop.”

“Yeah, I’d figured,” Combeferre replies but really, it can’t hurt to have Courfeyrac confirm it.

“I’m preordering the details,” Courfeyrac says casually, stretching out his hand to see if he can reach his hot chocolate without having to get up.

He can.

He can’t, however, _drink it_ without getting up, so Combeferre is doing him a favour, really, when he snatches the mug out of his hand and takes a sip himself.

“You get details when you’ve asked Jehan out,” Combeferre replies easily, wiping the foam off his lips.

“Ah, motivation.” Courfeyrac sits up and snags the mug back to cradle it to his chest.  “I’m glad you’re here,” he says after a while, “I’m glad I met _you_. Not _you guys_. You, specifically.”

And isn’t it a marvel that Courfeyrac just gets what he’s thinking without even asking, that he knows his secret worries and says exactly the right thing to make sure they go away and stay away.

 “Thanks,” Combeferre says softly. “You, too.”


	19. Jehan & Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Les Amis can get kind of oblivious when their precious attendance at the protest is at stake.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhat important to Five Conditions, but not from Enjolras' POV and therefore put up here.

“One thing.”

“Yes?”

"The blog, and the main page," Combeferre says. "Someone has to go around taking photos from a distance, see if we end up getting a few good ones. Even if the protest is not a success, we can still get attention afterwards."

"Someone has to stay away from the protest," Enjolras decides. He looks around. "Volunteers?"

Nobody meets his gaze, as if that would make them invisible. They all want to be there with him.

"Whom do we want in jail the least," muses Combeferre, taking a different approach.

"You," Enjolras shoots back immediately, "you are our joker, and we can't afford people suddenly knowing your face."

"I never get arrested," Combeferre replies, "But for our reputation, you would be definitely the worst person to end up in jail. You're our face. Our image stands and falls with you."

“Which is why I can’t afford _not to turn up in the first place,”_ Enjolras retaliates.

"What about Courfeyrac," Joly pipes up, "wouldn't he be banned from ever becoming a lawyer if he got caught?"

Grantaire rises, slowly, while Courfeyrac argues, "Not necessarily, and I wasn't going to be a lawyer anyway, I'm just studying to appease my parents, I’m completely fine with comedian…"

Jehan barely looks up as Grantaire squats down next to him.

"When were you going to tell them?" he asks, voice pitched low enough not to be heard by any of the obliviously debating Amis around them.

"That I'm afraid of jail? So is Joly, and you don't see him making a big deal of it," Jehan whispers back.

"That they have to be blind not to see the danger of you in jail, Jehan," Grantaire replies, "this is not the time to be heroic. We need you, and in one piece, untraumatised."

Jehan keeps silent, so Grantaire speaks up, interrupting Enjolras in his attempt to convince everyone of what they already know: that he’s _crucial_ to the protest. It would be hilarious if it weren’t for the situation at hand.

"You're forgetting someone," Grantaire says, slinging an arm around Jehan's shoulders. Jehan freezes, along with everyone else.

There is a beat. And then, Courfeyrac is out of his seat and crouching down at Jehan's other side.

"I'm sorry," he says, and then declares, louder, "Jehan stays. We can't risk him in jail."

 "Do I get asked?" Jehan protests, but there's no force behind it.


	20. Gavroche

"I’m sorry, you two, but I need to get going," Eponine says in rising from the table she’s been sharing with Combeferre and Enjolras. She rips out her earphones and stuffs them in her coat pocket. "My stupid little sister found scissors and had nothing better to do than cut her hair off, I should probably see that my dad doesn’t kill her." She tucks a firm, close-mouthed kiss into the corner of Combeferre’s mouth when he opens it to ask something. "I’ll be fine, don’t worry, enjoy your studying!

It’s not the first time Enjolras has heard about Eponine’s sister getting in trouble, and that counts for something, because he never actually talks to Eponine: the most interaction they get is when Combeferre invites her along to their study time, which they spend in silence.

The last time was because Azelma destroyed Eponine’s old dresses the day after she got them, and she did it so thoroughly that she almost set the house on fire in the process. Eponine needed to go home and save her from her father’s rage then, and the two of them spent a few days at Combeferre’s place until their parents inevitably forgot about her and she could go back to them.

The time before that Eponine had just been generally complaining about her sister being whiny, particularly so when she was supposed to take a bath, “which, come on, at age ten that should stop being an issue, right?”

Enjolras sits there pondering for a while, until Combeferre says, gently, “she’d have said it if she didn’t want to spend time with us,” but that’s not it at all.

Enjolras has stopped being mad at Combeferre for not reading his mind at age fifteen and a half, but that doesn’t mean it has stopped taking him aback when he realises that no, they do not, in fact, share a brain.

There’s a way to fix that, though, and so he says, “that’s not what I was worried about.”

"Then what was it?"

"It’s just a hunch," Enjolras admits, and he rarely shares his hunches, so Combeferre just nods. "Just, Eponine’s sibling,"

"Sister, Azelma," Combeferre supplies, assuming that Enjolras has, as usually, just forgotten everything that wasn’t important to him.

"What are they like?" he asks.

"Azelma?" Enjolras nods, and Combeferre takes a few seconds to find the right words. "Unhappy," he says finally, "and unruly, but extremely clever, in that how do I make most of the situation at hand kind of way. She knows Paris like the back of her hand. Did I tell you about that time she ran away from my place? I didn’t find her until nightfall, when she showed up at the place where I was looking for her at the time, like she knew where I was the entire time and just chose to go there when she got tired."

Huh, Enjolras thinks and resolves to talk to Eponine about it when he gets the chance.

-

When Eponine drags a dark-haired, reluctant child to their next meeting’s closing, introduces them as “Azelma, pouty sister” and apologises to Combeferre for bringing them, “but she threw a huge tantrum and I didn’t know what I’d come home to, so. She’ll be crashing our date tonight.”

"It’s fine," Combeferre says, patting her arm.

Enjolras crouches down so that he can properly look into the child’s defiant eyes. The haircut is awful, ranges from a few centimeters’ to shoulderlength, but it gives off a certain air of mischief. Enjolras holds out a hand, like he does for every new person that enters the Musain. “Enjolras,” he introduces himself. “Who are you?”

Enjolras has never been good with kids, but this he can do. Asking names doesn’t require simplifying or exaggerating or speaking in a high-pitched voice, although Eponine’s sibling is probably too old for that.

"Eponine said who I was earlier, weren’t you listening?" the kid says, the corners of their mouth turned down, pointedly not shaking Enjolras’ hand. Combeferre was right, there’s something unhappy in between all this defiance, something that has Enjolras bristling at whoever caused it.

"I’m asking you, though," he says, gravely. "Because you are whoever you feel like you are, sister or brother or sibling or none of that or all of it at once or maybe one of them today and tomorrow another."

Eponine is looking down at the kid with a frown that hasn’t settled for annoyance or worry yet.

"Brother," he articulates slowly, and Eponines frown falls away as her eyes go wide. "I’m Eponine’s brother." He sounds like he has, for the first time in his life, found a word that he approves of, and that he would willingly use for himself. Eponine breathes out a quiet "fuck." and his head snaps up.

She musters a smile, quickly, and says, “you could have told me, you know.”

Her brother shrugs, but stops halfway through it when something occurs to him, and he says: “Wait, do I get to choose a name for myself?”

Eponine groans. “Okay, kiddo, keep in mind that this one is probably going to stick around, and see this as an opportunity to escape the curse of a horribly pretentious name, yeah?”

He grins. “No way mum and dad would have called me anything normal. People will see right through that. I’ve done my research. Name’s Gavroche.”

  
*

If his parents rarely cared about Azelma, they choose to ignore Gavroche entirely.

Not that he minds. His mother’s sporadic attempts at spoiling him with dolls and dresses always ended with him working himself into a fit, which led to his mother stopping and instead leaving him Eponine’s old clothes and mutilated dolls. Being left to his own devices is much better.

He sneaks glances of Eponine binding her breasts, painting her face in such a way that she looks to be more of a boy than he does, and he is furious. He demands that she do the same for him, and she says his face isn’t the problem. His hair is.

When he steals his parents’ scissors and cuts it, she has the gall to be surprised. She still doesn’t do his make up; she says that faces his age don’t yet look specifically female or male, and it is the best thing he’s ever heard.

At school, nothing really changes. He gets by through bluntness and cleverness, and the occasional kind word that nobody expects.

When he goes out, he’s met with a new kind of wariness. People stop pitying him and start taking him for what he is: a thief, a good-for-nothing, someone perfectly capable of fucking their shit up. He walks the streets until late at night, for being chased and called a brat and asked _young man, what are you doing out here at this time of night_ , is a lot better than having his sister call him sis and Azelma.

A kid on a playground asks him his name, and he needs to come up with a new one within seconds. He says _Ben_ , but it doesn’t ring true. He spends a few days thinking, he knows how Eponine complains about her pretentious name. It must be something she’d hate.

 _Gavroche_ comes to him at some point, and when Eponine drags him to a meeting of her boyfriend’s friends and a man crouches down to his eye-level and takes the time to ask him rather than leave introductions to his sister, he takes the opportunity to introduce his new name to his sister. She stops calling him sis after that, she rescues his haircut without making it look like a girl had an accident with scissors, and she promises to teach him how to do his make-up and binding when he needs it.

They get along like a house on fire after that.

He learns most of the Amis’ names within a few days, wandering in and out of the Musain’s back room as he pleases. They use him to find lost members (Marius) or “lost” members (Grantaire) and he accepts their payment (which is never predictable) without complaint, sauntering off to the little bakery whose baker will address him as _young man_ at all times.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please tell me if anything I write offends you or unsettles you in any way, and I’ll change it.


	21. Christmas - Feuilly, Jehan, Grantaire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Christmas, the number of active Amis suddenly drops to three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: mention of suicide and depression
> 
> I changed Feuilly's obsession from Poland to Russia because of this post: http://delabaisse.tumblr.com/post/60574052647/tenlittlebullets-viventlespeuples  
> I thought in this setting Russia would work best, what with the recent absolutely disgusting anti gay laws and the whole hostile, violent attitude towards anyone queer or trans*.

At Christmas, the number of active _Amis_ suddenly drops to three.

Combeferre introduces Eponine (and, by extension, Gavroche) to his parents and Cosette takes Marius to meet her father. Joly and Bossuet and Musichetta keep to themselves. Bahorel, Courfeyrac and Enjolras go home to their families.

It makes Grantaire realise that no matter how hard _Les Amis_ try to lower themselves until they’re on eye level, most of them still are incredibly privileged, rich, loved students who just happen to have an interest in supporting the most miserable people they could find. Namely, the three of them.

Grantaire stays, because he never got along with his parents. Any time spent with his parents is time spent shouting, and so he doesn’t even try, even if it means locking himself in his room contemplating suicide for 24 hours. He doesn’t go with Enjolras because he is not insane, and also because Enjolras didn’t offer.

Feuilly stays because he doesn’t have any family left to go to and no boyfriend to impose on.

Jehan stays because his father threw him out a few months ago and he doesn’t want to ruin Christmas for his whole family, so he just ruins his own.

It takes a bit of asking around until Grantaire finds out who is planning to spend Christmas on their own beside him, and he gets almost as many pitiful looks in the process as it takes for him to start throwing punches, but he gets there eventually, and sends the two of them a text.

_Lovelies, I’ve organised the keys to the back room of the Musain for Christmas Evening! Do you want to come and get smashed?_

He’d tried to talk Enjolras into leaving the keys with him and incredibly, impossibly (probably with the help of Enjolras’ bad conscience for not asking him to come along) succeeded. He’d have spent Christmas on his own there if it came to that, because his flat gets more depressing by the minute. It’s becoming a problem, the urge to take one of the sharp kitchen knives and slash open his arms or throat, but one he’s yet to talk about to anyone.

They both reply immediately, though:

 _I’d love to,_ is Jehans answer, and Feuilly writes, _Course! Who’s going to be there?_

It helps him build a fence around the black hole in his chest that keeps further damage from happening. It’s a quick fix, but Grantaire finds himself awaiting Christmas with indifference rather than horror for the first time in years, and that is more than enough.

*

Feuilly is Grantaire, except that he made the most of himself. Feuilly is under no illusion about their cause, and he’s lost everything, and he may be talented but never got to use it. Feuilly doesn’t think highly of himself.

And yet he has the energy to get up in the mornings and go to a job he hates. And yet he has the motivation to tag along with anyone who will let him to their lectures, knowing full well that it won’t get him anything but knowledge for himself. And yet he has the patience to write mails to his Russian pen pal. And yet he has kept himself the belief that he can change things, if only he tries hard enough.

Feuilly is living proof of the fact that Grantaire is a failure. Grantaire wonders if Feuilly despises him, sometimes. He never stops wondering, until Feuilly walks into the Musain that Christmas and finds Grantaire sitting on the floor where his energy left him all of a sudden, hands shaking despite the two beers he’s already downed.

He assesses the situation with a glance and moves to offer Grantaire a hand.

Grantaire takes it, and lets himself be hauled off the floor and into Feuilly’s arms, where he stays (boneless, thoughtless) until Feuilly tosses him onto the sofa and sits down next to him.

“Dude,” he says, a hand resting on Grantaire’s shoulder, “you saved my life, you know. Christmas is always the worst.”

“I know, right,” Grantaire mumbles in response, and there seems to be a bit of life coming back to him. Feuilly’s hand on his shoulder leaks warmth into his body, and Grantaire is desperate enough for it to make a small sound when Feuilly removes it.

Feuilly just takes off his jacket and scarf, though, hangs them up, and comes back to the sofa. His hand finds the exact spot on Grantaire’s shoulder again before it gets the chance to cool off.

“I start planning ahead for Christmas six months into the year,” he says, “it’s a fucking nightmare, and nobody gets it.”

“Not this year, though,” Grantaire announces, and it sounds almost cheerful now. “There’s booze in the bag, and I brought cards. And gifts. And a twig, because we may not be worthy of a whole tree but we definitely deserve a bit of that conifer wood smell.” (He didn’t bring his notebook because he seems to have forgotten how to draw along with everything else.)

That’s when Jehan comes in with an armful of flowers.

“Merry Christmas,” he says, and Grantaire can’t make out his expression behind all that red and yellow and orange, but it sounds like a smile.

(Grantaire’s smiles are watered down beyond recognition these days, so he doesn’t even try.)

He gets up to organise a vase (a beer glass is the only thing large enough to fit all the flowers, Jesus, Jehan must have spent a fortune on them).

Feuilly starts rummaging in his bag now as well, getting out a few boxes that smell like food. “Pizza and pancakes,” he says, apologetic, “because, as Grantaire rightly assumed, we are not worthy of a proper Christmas but we still fucking deserve our little happy place with a bit of happy food and a happy twig.”

Jehan snickers, and Grantaire closes his eyes and lets the sound wash over him.


	22. Ohrwurm - Enjolras & Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was supposed to get a lot of things done today, which means of course that I went and wrote a oneshot instead.  
> You don’t need to know Five Conditions for this, but if you do: The first part takes place before the first chapter and the second part after the last. So if you don’t want any spoilers on the outcome, better wait until I’ve uploaded the last chapter of Five Conditions! :)
> 
> It seems there are quite a few German words about music that don’t exist in English.
> 
> Such as: Ohrwurm - catchy tune, literally: earwig.
> 
> tothören - to kill a song you initially liked by listening to it too often
> 
> schönhören - the opposite. To listen to a song you initially didn’t like until you start seeing its good parts.
> 
> That was your German lesson for today. You’re welcome.

**Tothören**

When Grantaire starts to realise that he is well on his way to falling in love with Enjolras, it’s almost too late.

It’s become something of an obsession already to absentmindedly draw those fine, long-fingered hands, his eyebrows knitted together in righteous fury, his full lower lip that curls into a smile or juts out in a scowl and that shows his soul so much better than long-lashed, steel-blue eyes, his high forehead tainted with a worried frown or smooth in delight. He sketches them separately, mingling Enjolras’ features and those of passing strangers so he won’t be found out: He secretly fits an unforgiving, angrily staring blue eye into a profile of a pouting teenage girl and is surprised to see how well it works. He sketches Enjolras’ hands along with Feuilly’s and Jehan’s so that nobody will ask, the tips of his fingers loosely holding a pen – the only time Enjolras is gentle is when he writes, and even then only with his pen, and possibly with one of his friends who just happens to lean over his shoulder to read along. He outlines Enjolras’ parted lips and quickly draws a woman’s head thrown back in pleasure around them, and still he’s afraid someone might realise, because those lips are so undeniably, unmistakeably Enjolras’ – but nobody does. Feuilly compliments him on the shadowing, Bahorel whistles, and Courfeyrac asks for the girl’s phone number, but none of them _notice_.

That’s, of course, because no one is as familiar with Enjolras’ lips as Grantaire is, since he spends a good part of his day staring at them in thought while Enjolras rattles off things that need to be done or that are happening right now that nobody is aware of.

It is then that Grantaire realises that his crush is on its way to develop into something infinitely less fun and more hurtful, and Grantaire may occasionally indulge in self-destructive behaviour but even he knows that a broken heart is not something he needs to experience ever again in his life if he can help it.

So he resolves to kill Enjolras for himself, like you’d kill a song by listening to it until you never want to hear it ever again. He’ll draw him until he’s tired of him, watch him until he becomes boring, listen to him until he wants to leave the room and never come back.

There are two ways that this could go, Grantaire is aware of that, of course: it could work, and then he’d leave – or possibly stay (because he has found friends here by now), and revel in the fact that Enjolras annoys him just as much as he annoys Enjolras. Or it could go horribly, _unspeakably_ wrong; Enjolras could turn out to be addictive, like alcohol: make him feel miserable and sick of him first and then make him come back for more and more and more.

Which is just as well, Grantaire supposes, because if he fails, he wants to do so _spectacularly,_ with everything he’s got. If he goes out, he’ll do it with a bang rather than a whimper.

So he locks himself in his flat with a canvas and a stack of paper and all kinds of paints and pencils, and paints. For the first time, he paints Enjolras in his full glory – or rather, what glimpses of skin beneath rucked up shirts made him imagine: He paints the curve of his hips, his Adam’s apple, his dark blond hair that is curly or wavy depending on weather and time of day, his laugh lines that spring into action whenever he goes into charm mode to seduce a new possible member into staying and listening with a dazed expression. He paints him naked, lying sprawled on the floor or standing in the shower or lying on his bed with a fucked out expression that Grantaire composes out of his pleased-face and his exhausted-face, except with his eyes shut like that one time Enjolras fell asleep during a meeting after pulling an all-nighter because of some exam or other.

And then, when he’s tired of that, he draws Enjolras in a frenzy, Enjolras angry, Enjolras yelling, Enjolras giving a speech, Enjolras writing, Enjolras scribbling furiously (because that’s two separate things, they deserve a drawing each), Enjolras scornful, Enjolras worried, Enjolras thoughtful, Enjolras listening with an expression of almost religious admiration on his face (that one happened during a speech of Combeferre’s, and Grantaire feels almost sick drawing it), Enjolras in casual clothes, Enjolras with a tie that he obviously didn’t even _try_ to tie properly, Enjolras with that rare expression of fondness in his eyes, an arm slung around Jehan, -

and that’s when the art block strikes.

Grantaire finds, his hand hurting, smudged with graphite, that he cannot draw another line. He stares at the blank sheet of paper in front of him, to no avail.

He’s quite familiar with art blocks, seeing as he’s an art student, so he’s got some tricks, but none of them work: going back to recent drawings doesn’t, switching styles and paints and from paper to canvas doesn’t, soothing music doesn’t. Not even a different subject does it: Grantaire finds himself unable to draw landscapes as well as familiar faces of friends and family or animals.

Maybe that was it, then, Grantaire thinks, laying down the pen and leaving for the bathroom, where he has the best wank of his life and emerges with a sinking feeling that, yeah, _maybe it wasn’t._

He squeezes, with some difficulty, the paintings and drawings into the refuse container, and turns up to the next meeting to see if it’s worked.

It hasn’t. It has the opposite of worked. Enjolras is too catchy to leave his mind for just one second. Enjolras is as infuriatingly stunning and interesting as he has ever been, possibly even more so, because now Grantaire has spent thoughts on how his bare chest looks like, on what he might be like in post-orgasmic bliss, on how that softened gaze would feel if turned towards him.

Grantaire decides to give up on all secrecy and takes up blatantly flirting with Enjolras there and then.

Enjolras spares him a glance but doesn’t dignify any of his tries with a response.

Grantaire goes home feeling both miserable and, for some reason, strangely elated. It takes him some time to place the feeling: It’s the feeling of unrequited love, that starts out hurting so good and then goes downhill from there. He groans and sinks into his bed.

**Schönhören**

It comes back to his mind months and months later, at one of those rare lazy mornings that Grantaire loves so much, when they’re both still in bed, awake but not willing to move just yet. Or move more than the fingers that Grantaire drags across Enjolras’ exposed back, drawing lines that curl around one another and make Enjolras arch his spine, goosebumps appearing under the tip of Grantaire’s thumb.

“How exactly did you fall in love with me?” Grantaire dares to ask.

“Slowly,” Enjolras answers, turning around. He’s very matter-of-fact about this whole love thing, which, Grantaire is not complaining, at least he _did_ make the effort to convince him that he actually loves him. But every now and then, Grantaire is able to coax a metaphor out of him that might be romantic if you squint a bit. Maybe today is one of those days.

“You know those songs that everybody seems to like and you just don’t get why?” Enjolras goes on, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow. If this is going to be a metaphor Enjolras will have to try very hard to make it romantic.

“And they’re _everywhere_. When you go shopping, they start playing, or when you’re with your friends someone starts to sing them, and without fail, everyone always sings along and you sit there _wondering_ , because what the hell is even remotely interesting about that song?”

Grantaire’s eyebrows reach an all-time-high. He’s starting to feel mildly insulted.

“And then, something happens. Maybe a friend says the song means a lot to him, or you listen to it alone in your apartment for a change, or you’re just feeling too good to let the song ruin your mood for once. And so you decide to give it a try, and you discover that one line that you like, and think: Maybe it’s not so bad after all.”

Grantaire’s beginning scowl dissolves when the corners of his mouth curl upwards without his permission.

“So when you hear it the next time, you’re not annoyed at all, and that makes it so much easier for the song. You start listening to it yourself, discovering bits and pieces as you go, finding new favourite lines or notes or those drums at the beginning are _really great_ how did I never notice?

“And before you know it, you can sing along, you know every word of the song, you smile when it plays in the radio, you play it on the way home from work to calm down, and everyone laughs at you for the 180°-turn of your opinion on it but you couldn’t care less because _goddamnit that song._ ”

Enjolras smiles one of his rare smiles; the dazzling one, the one where he knows _exactly_ what he’s doing to Grantaire’s feelings and is _proud of it_ , the bastard. “That’s how it went,” he finishes.


	23. Grantaire & Combeferre, II

Grantaire has tried his hand on poetry; he’d be lying if he said that he’d ever taken an interest in something without trying it out himself.

He’s stopped, because at least with paintings, those who don’t get it have something left to say about it without sounding awkward. With paintings, he can stomach getting praise from people who don’t understand a thing of it. With poetry, it’s just his deeply lonely soul laid bare for inspection, and people will take their time trying for something unhurtful to say, and when they settle on “it’s beautiful” it sounds nothing like what they say about his paintings, even though it’s the same two words.

So when Combeferre steals his notebook, he thinks nothing of it, until he realizes that it’s the one with the poem he scrawled into it one early morning: he’d been out late, come home trapped in between feeling drunk and hungover, and scribbled down:

_wandering the uncharted patches of my soul_

_i find that ‘here, there be dragons’ is a lie_

_it would not be fair to say that i’m up against monsters_

_or criminals_

_i’m fighting nothing_

_(and you, if you doubt that nothing can leave bruises, too_

_or have you never held a vacuum cleaner to your skin?)_

_although you could argue that_

_life is a monstrosity that sucks energy almost as badly_

_as my soul sucks generosity_

_(not in the way an abundance of mass sucks in more mass because it can’t get enough_

_just like a lack of substance sucks and will never be satisfied until all is equal and neat and boring)_

_i water down my smiles beyond recognition_

_so i’ll have enough to make it through my day:_

_one for my neighbor as we stumble down the stairs in the morning_

_twenty for my colleagues to accompany apologies_

_two for my friends who pick me up at the designated place and ask with barely-concealed exasperation if i’m alright_

_six for the bartender so he’ll give me another shot_

_twenty-nine grimaces that say_

_i know it’s not a real one_

_but i tried_

_and you know what i mean anyway, don’t you?_

Combeferre reads it through to the end, because he’s just that mean. Then, he snaps the notebook shut and says, “there’s one thing you’re wrong about.”

Grantaire nods, because hey, here’s something they agree on.

“Anything that doesn’t need prompting to happen, see your example of pressure compensation, is a movement towards chaos. So the evening out of pressures doesn’t result in neatness. It creates chaos. It’s in the second law of thermodynamics: evening out pressures leaves more room for the particles, which makes more microstates possible, thusly increasing the entropy – or disorder.”

Grantaire thinks that, as reactions to poetry go, this one is quite alright. He nods. “Duly noted.”

He thinks that this is it.

It isn’t.

He gets a text that evening; looking up at Combeferre, he finds him engrossed in a conversation with Enjolras – but the text on his phone is undoubtedly Combeferre’s. Grantaire can hear Combeferre’s steady voice when he reads it, it’s so very _him._

**_Combeferre:_ ** _Do you know how deep sea fish survive the extremely high water pressure?_

He shrugs in Combeferre’s general direction, but the man doesn’t even look up, so he types out:

**_Grantaire:_ ** _Idk strong skeletons I guess?_

It takes barely a minute before his phone buzzes again. Grantaire has no idea how he does it, never taking his eyes from Enjolras, never stopping in his speech.

**_Combeferre:_ ** _No. They have internal pressures similar to the water pressure._

And, several seconds later:

**_Combeferre:_ ** _Guess what happens when they leave the deep sea and come up near the surface?_

And Grantaire has read about that, or was it human beings in space without the familiar weigh of air on their shoulders? He hazards a guess.

**_Grantaire_ ** _: Their eyes pop out?_

**_Combeferre:_ ** _They explode._

It’s a two-word-text, Grantaire doesn’t get how Combeferre manages to convey this much smugness in only two words. Especially since Grantaire isn’t getting it.

**_Grantaire:_ ** _What are you getting at?_

**_Combeferre:_ ** _I’m saying, different animals are accustomed to different levels of external pressure._

**_Combeferre:_ ** _They can handle that exact pressure, any more or less and they die._

**_Combeferre:_ ** _There’s nothing especially strong about being accustomed to higher external pressures._

**_Combeferre:_ ** _That applies to people, too._

And Grantaire might get it now. (Or he might not.)

**_Grantaire:_ ** _Are you saying Enjolras would explode if he were to live a life as vastly empty from expectations as mine_

**_Grantaire:_ ** _Or was this an attempt to make me feel better about myself with your weird science metaphors_

Combeferre takes his time answering now, and when he does, it’s only one word:

**_Combeferre:_ ** _Both._

But he quickly follows it up with:

**_Combeferre:_ ** _Don’t think you’re frail just because you feel comfortable in a less ambitious environment._

**_Combeferre:_ ** _Is what I’m saying._

Grantaire laughs out loud at that, and this time Combeferre looks over with a pleased smile.

**_Grantaire:_ ** _I like your weird sciency metaphors, Combeferre._

**_Combeferre:_ ** _Good._


End file.
